


Samsara

by Ebyru



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Alteration, Multi, Off-screen Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pseudo-Incest, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sequel, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Steve finds out Bucky is still alive - from the file Natasha brings him - he goes on a mad hunt across countries and continents, trying to remind him of who he really is. Meanwhile, his bond with Natasha grows, he makes new friends, and he realizes he might feel more than ‘friendly’ love towards Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Destination One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [There’s a Seat Here alongside Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2194995) by [Ebyru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru). 



> 1\. I'd like to thank my lovely betas: [Kitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaufeiaEvans/pseuds/LaufeiaEvans), [Leandra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LeandraLocke/pseuds/LeandraLocke) & [Miri](http://iamsaplinggroot.tumblr.com/). Without you guys, I wouldn't have been able to edit this at all. I was ready to quit so many times. Thank you for your hard work. <3  
> \+ Lovely artwork/fanmix done by Anna. [see it HERE](http://truthismusic.livejournal.com/22553.html).
> 
> 2.This is a continuation (in a way) of a [crossover story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2194995) I wrote with Steve/Thor/Loki. At the end of that one, Natasha gave him a picture of Bucky as The Winter Soldier, and it threw him through a loop. You don’t need to read that story to follow this one since the focus is mostly on Steve/Bucky.
> 
> **For [Marvel_bang 2014](http://marvel-bang.livejournal.com/)!

_ _

_Definition:_ Hind. _“_ _The_ _endless series of births, deaths, and rebirths to which all beings are subject.”_

Steve stood in the centre of his bedroom, griping the file. The photo of not-quite-Bucky brands his palm and his fingertips where they’re curled around the folder. Photos of his friend press into his mind with a searing pain, and he can’t reconcile this cold, calculated killer with the warm, charming version of Bucky he’s known his entire life. They are incongruous pieces, unfit to be two halves of the same person.

 

It’s what drives Steve forward; it’s why he looks up at Natasha with determination to solve this enigma. How could Bucky have survived? How is this not some sick joke or a doppelganger created to draw Steve – and the serum’s genetic code inside of him – into Hydra’s clutches? The file crumples as his hold tightens, and Natasha shakes her head, already understanding what his reaction means.

 

The short answer to all these questions – and the answer Natasha would likely give – is: it doesn’t matter. There’s too much danger surrounding not-Bucky. It’s not worth knowing. The risk is too great for how little information Steve has gathered. Hydra has done their very best to hide him and any programming they’ve put inside his head. Besides, this is The Winter Soldier – a trained assassin, talked about but never seen, known to move like shadows within trees. Bucky’s entire survival relies on him keeping out of sight and remaining Hydra’s mystery. Who could possibly find him?

 

Evidently, Natasha can. From the security footage she found, his methods point to soviet training. There’s little known about him personally, but there’s a handful of high-profile kills caught around the globe - the ones they know of at least. Lucky for Steve, Natasha was trained by soviets as well. For that same reason, she tells him that it’s likely not his smartest idea to date, which is true.

 

Between the two of them, they’ve dealt with rampaging Asgardians fighting over a throne, werewolves from Beacon Hills gone to England to meet a genetic specialist (who is also called a ‘telepath’), a hunter and his angel, and one demonically possessed teenager who also happens to be Natasha’s cousin. Not the best track record, even for an Avenger. Steve seeking out Bucky _right after_ all of that is straddling the line of insanity, but no one ever said he didn’t have a crazy streak. Or a deathwish, if you ask Natasha.

 

Steve has to go after his best friend, though. The way Bucky moves - the fluidity, the precision, the confidence. That’s all reminiscent of what Bucky was before Hydra got a hold of him. The only difference is the sense of detachment - an inhumanity that frightens Steve to his core. He’s never once been afraid of Bucky even though he was bigger and stronger, and that’s why he needs to get to him. That’s why it’s important he remind him of who he was, who he can still be. This is still his best friend, what’s _left_ of him. Steve can’t go on mourning him if he’s out there, alive, killing for a group of terrorists. They’ve always agreed when it comes to _pure_ justice. Assassinating politicians, presidents, humanitarians to sway a nation is not how it works. It’s not what he’d want to be doing with his life.

                                                    

Natasha watches Steve for five continuous minutes, her arms crossed, as he packs a duffel bag. He gives her a steely look, the best he can muster when his insides feel jumbled and misplaced. She sighs and tosses him a wrinkled up map of France.

 

“You’ll need that,” she says, “if you’re going to track him through Paris.”

 

“Thank you, Nat,” he murmurs, folding it and slotting it inside the bag.

 

She tilts her head down in a bow but more severe. “I’m coming with you by the way.” She strides out of Steve’s room. A few moments later, he can hear her rustling through her drawers and filling her own duffel bag.

 

There’s no arguing with Natasha, not when she ends a discussion by showing her back. It’s a weakness she’d never allow her enemy to see. A sign of faith with a depth of meaning: _I trust you, so trust me._

 

*

 

It may be cowardice for Steve to leave a note for Thor and Loki when he leaves for Paris. More so because all it says is ‘gone on a mission with Widow.’ It’s not every day he has two Asgardians professing their admiration of him, and then sleeping with him, but…The Bucky situation is a bit of a complication.

 

It was unexpected, and it’s sending his heart reeling. He doesn’t know if he wants to be with Thor or Loki anymore. He didn’t know if he even wanted them that way while he was in bed with them. It was just such a relief to see Loki in a different light; a chance to see him without the ‘villain’ title everyone attached to him. He was just Thor’s brother, and he was beautiful in his Jotunn form. Thor obviously felt the same way. But Steve feels differently now. Bucky is…a large part of him that he needs to reconnect with.

 

Regardless of what he felt at the time they were intimate, he leaves that vague note taped to Thor’s bedroom door and does little else. It’s not his fault they left the Avengers tower to do errands. (Though, it helps him escape without as much confusion).

 

\---

 

Natasha gives him a pinched look for most of the flight, including while they’re waiting to board. She continues to do so until he finally takes out his phone and sends a group text to the other Avengers (“gone to catch the Winter Soldier”) when they land. He adds for Thor and Loki that it may be his supposedly dead best friend. Later on, as they’re waiting for a taxi, he calls Fury and tells him a similar half-truth. Just enough for Natasha to get off his back

 

Afterwards, Natasha smiles and says, “Here, I know this great café. My treat.” In her language, that’s total forgiveness.

 

The café smells of brews and roasts that Steve imagines his parents must have drank back when they were alive, and when trash like Starbucks wasn’t even a seed of an idea. It makes him chuckle under his breath. Despite being in his twenties, he’s turning into that old man everyone complains about. It must be inevitable.

 

Natasha quirks a brow, crossing her legs under the table. “Do I have milk on my lip?”

 

“No, it’s just – me, you, _here_.” He waves an arm around. “People could almost see us as normal.” He smiles, handing her a napkin. “But yeah, there’s some mousse on your lip.”

 

“Jerk,” she huffs, laughing softly. “I thought you were supposed to be the nice one.”

 

Steve shrugs, leaning back in his cushioned seat. “Not all the time.”

 

Natasha’s got a curl to her mouth, seconds from a retort, when the ground shakes below them. Steve’s first reflex is to thrust his arms out and block Natasha’s body with his own in case of falling debris; it wouldn’t be the first time a building’s collapsed on top of him. Patrons rush out of the café, screaming and gasping as a flood of dust enters their lungs.

 

Pushing his arms away, Natasha tugs him by the elbow to follow her outside. “This way,” she says, sprinting through the throng of frantic civilians. “I figured Bucky would pick this area as a diversion.”

 

“Why didn’t you mention we were stalling? I didn’t bring my shield, Natasha!”

 

Her constant glancing up at rooftops and in high, glass windows seems altogether too predictable for someone who was just relaxing. There’s no tightness in her posture as she continues to lead him through a blur of frightened faces. “This way,” she mutters, pulling a handgun from her back pocket.

 

“You should have let me in on this plan,” he shouts, flailing an arm in disbelief. Amidst the cacophony, people still turn to see why he’s shouting, and he ducks his head so they can’t recognize him. Too much attention for a covert mission.

 

“I always have a plan! Anyway, I wasn’t certain,” she concedes flatly, speeding ahead of him through a lane.

 

Steve groans, “I know what that means. It means you don’t like being wrong so you withheld until it was confirmed. That’s not how a team works, Nat. That’s how people get killed.”

 

From over her shoulder she snaps, “Have you been talking to Clint about me?”

 

At first, Steve thinks it’s a joke, but he knows that tone. She honestly thinks Clint betrayed her trust and revealed her deeply personal insecurities without her consent. She’s free to analyse them all as she wishes, but when she’s under the scope, she gets flustered, angry.

For most of Steve’s life, he’s been good at reading others. Mostly as a defence mechanism, a way to survive as a little guy. She wasn’t that hard to crack considering. But he’s offended that she thinks so little of him – that he would ask around _about_ her, instead of simply asking her first. Not to mention that she brought Clint into this, and he’s the person she trusts the most in the world. Their heart to heart will have to wait until people aren’t running away for their lives.

 

“Focus,” he tells her. “We have to get to him before anyone gets hurt.”

 

A bomb has just gone off a block away from the café, which means Bucky’s not far and neither is his target. Natasha takes in a breath, studying the rubble of what used to be a restaurant, then looks up at Steve. Her gaze is soft - an apology, then. He shakes his head. There’s nothing to say that he doesn’t already know. She’s not the best with people, not trained to be nice.

 

She glances up again, and it hits Steve: _sniper training_. The file mentioned it briefly, but Steve was more focused on the photographs of cryogenics and the metal arm. Of all people, he should have remembered Bucky was, and always will be, the best sniper around. He liked keeping out of direct focus, away from his target. Made it easier to leave unnoticed or lose a tail if anyone was smart enough to catch on.

 

That part hasn’t changed if Hydra lists it as his primary strength.

 

There’s a building up ahead, not much to look at considering it’s in a busy area – a brewery or some kind of wine storage. Something about it tells Steve it’s important; there’s a clue there.

 

“Okay, Steve, I think—”

 

He watches, missing entire parts of what Natasha is saying about soviet mission protocols. The curtain on the top-right window moves abruptly from someone having been there. If he’s lucky, they might still be. There’s no wind to speak of, so he knows it’s his biggest lead.

 

Natasha wouldn’t risk it – rushing into a building, unprepared, unarmed, on a hunch that’s worse than a shot in the dark. The thing is she doesn’t know Bucky, _he_ does. Apparently, his legs are faster than his decision-making facilities because, before he can reach a conclusion, he’s racing over there with a brusque, “I think he’s in here.”

 

She’s spluttering, “W-what?” as he runs at full speed, flipping over a car that nearly hits him and giving her no chance to catch up. Just ten strides and he’s inside, lunging up stair after stair, all the way to the top floor. The room is empty, but the window’s open. He rushes back on his tracks certain he saw a dusty door with a handprint on it, a fresh mark from someone who must have just went out.

 

One deep breath for luck and he pushes until he’s outside. As the door creaks behind him, he catches the tail-end of Natasha saying, “Don’t go alone, he’s too dangerous!” It’s too late for that. The stance of a military man poised to leap from the roof is what greets him. The frame is wider, but he’d recognize that shape in a coma if it came down to it.

 

Stepping closer might make him run, and he can’t risk that now. “Bucky!” he shouts instead, blowing his one chance to sneak up.

 

When the figure turns, Steve has to tell himself _not Bucky not Bucky not Bucky_ because his mind refuses to see anything but his closest and dearest friend. Even with the black war paint, the tough suit, the metal arm… A replacement for the one he lost from a fall that was all Steve’s fault.

 

Bucky, for all intents and purposes, looks cold and heartless. Emotionless and trained to kill at the snap of a finger like a guard dog. To someone else, someone who isn’t Steve, he would be the furthest thing from Bucky there is. Because Steve knew him, fought with him, would have died for him, he knows the truth. He would have killed anyone with Steve’s word. This is Bucky at his core. The only difference between Bucky and this version of him was how he covered it up. Now it’s in the open; he’s a raw nerve pinched tightly between Hydra’s fingertips.

 

The sound of his boots as he stalks towards Steve - everything and nothing about him reminiscent of the old Bucky – is ominous and fills him with a sense of dread. What will he do? What will Steve have to do to stop him? Something he desperately wants to avoid.

 

Suddenly, Steve hears a helicopter approaching for the assassin. This is his meeting point, and Steve is an obstruction.

 

Bucky’s hair falls into his eyes as he tucks his gun against his side. He eyes Steve for what feels like a lifetime – the same lifetime it’s been since they’ve seen each other. A flicker, a twitch to Bucky’s steady gaze gives Steve the hope he needs to move his frozen form. It’s nothing, really. Both arms come up, in view and unarmed, but it’s a threat to Bucky because he levels Steve’s hope down like a building, and reaches behind his back lightning fast for a small blade.

 

The helicopter lands at the edge where Bucky was, and he doesn’t look back as Steve collapses. It’s difficult to keep the blood from pouring out of his wrists when his tendons are nearly undone, nothing but the serum keeping him from passing out. Natasha’s voice is in his ear, whispering or whimpering, her hands sliding in the thick of his blood as it continues oozing.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want this. I should have told you. I won’t ever let this happen again if you just make it out alive,” she cries, tear tracks running down her reddening cheeks. She holds him in her lap, fingers leaving red marks on the numbers of her cell phone. She contacts Fury; Steve hears him sigh over the speaker. He’d laugh if his body understood what was so funny.

 

As it happened, Bucky’s face was terrified. His only reaction to movement was _kill it, stop it, end it_. A result of his prolonged abuse. It’s perhaps why Steve didn’t stop the attack in time; the guilt knocked the wind from him, sent his mind careening into what ifs and _what have I done_. In a way, he felt he deserved this. It’s the least he could have done.

 

Natasha sobs when he closes his eyes, but he only does it to see Bucky’s face in his mind. They may never get a chance to find him again. He’s smoke from a forest fire, and he burns like one, too. He may be nothing to the world, but he’s everything to Steve.

 

*

 

The bandages itch, but when he tries to scratch he sets off a slew of machines. He sighs, falling deeper into his aseptic, neutral-blue pillow. Natasha sits by his bedside, reading a thick magazine. She leans forward to see the monitor past Steve’s right shoulder, then leans back in her chair. “I told them this was too much. As you can see, they didn’t take my advice.”

 

That’s probably a lie. He saw her face as he lost consciousness; she was sheet-white, her lip trembling in fear. If anything, she threatened them if they tried to remove any of the equipment. Poor Natasha – he knows her façade now, her persona, without any outside help. He shakes his head, sighing again because what else can he do. He may never get the sight of her horrified expression out of his mind for the rest of his existence.

 

“I’m not made of glass,” he says, squaring his jaw. He feels defiant; he wants it to be true. He doesn’t want to be that scrawny kid.

 

The ‘anymore’ that echoes in his skull wouldn’t make sense to her. She never saw him heaving in lungfuls of air, Bucky at his side praying he survives just one more time. That was suns and moons in the past. Skies that were brighter and women who were crueler.

 

She pulls him from the thought with her deadpan “No, but you’re more important to this country than the president is.” She folds the magazine down enough to show Steve her shining eyes with a grin. It wanes as he reaches to scratch underneath his bandages. She lowers her eyes, lifting her magazine. Her walls returning in place. “Don’t ever go in by yourself again. I mean it.”

 

Steve swallows, pressing his index finger to his left wrist. He knows the serum won’t leave scars behind; though, he wants them as a reminder of how much he failed a soldier, a friend, the last piece of his family. He glances up at her, nodding. “I promise.” It’s the only lie he allows himself. If it were Clint - kidnapped and brainwashed (again) - she would understand.

 

She continues reading with a crease between her brows. She probably doesn’t believe him, not that he blames her.


	2. Destination Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamburg, Germany.

 

Either Natasha’s soviet training is really coming in handy or the Winter Soldier is leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for them. Steve believes the latter because of the world of possibilities it opens up. It’s clear which Natasha leans towards; she deserves a pat on the back for all her spy skills anyway. There’s no way, without her, Steve would be anywhere in Germany again. It was bad enough during WWII. Then there was Loki killing innocents and terrorizing a crowd; a memory he doesn’t want now that he knows him better. But worst of all was Bucky. Decades later and he can still feel the chill of cold snow that hit him in the face as he watched Bucky slip through his fingers.

 

Hopefully this new visit will bring something positive – a chance for Steve to move forward.

 

Fury helps them with Intel. Hydra is on the move again, working somehow unseen and from somewhere very, very _close_. Close enough that Fury has to burrow underground (possibly literally) in order to keep feeding them the information they need to catch up to Bucky. It’s no longer just Steve’s personal mission, it’s international security. He’s now a spy working for SHIELD – quite frankly, something he never wanted to become.

 

Hamburg, Germany is where he leads them - a beautiful city in spite of the circumstances. The weather is calm, a bit on the crisp side. The cold may not be why his spine tingles, why his wrists itch with still-healing wounds. Bucky might not be so kind next time. There may not be a next time if they can’t find him before he goes through with this mission. Hydra has him on a tight leash, constantly resetting him when they feel he’s becoming too human. Someone can only be reprogrammed so many times before their mind shuts down.

 

Natasha’s dressed all in black, a hood to keep her fiery hair hidden as well. She blends in with these people, but to be fair, she could blend in anywhere. Steve, on the other hand, is big, broad and military. No matter how she tells him to slouch or walk less straight, he can’t help himself. He can’t remove his years of training, attempt after attempt of showing how valuable a small guy could be for the army. It would be like denying the suffering it took to get where he finally is now.

 

Maybe that’s the point. Those years of being frail weren’t half as difficult as what Bucky’s going through now. There’s no one else he’d rather give up his morals for. Break his word for. Sacrifice Natasha’s trust on.

 

In the middle of a square, Aral’s CEO – one of the largest petroleum companies in Germany - gives a speech about foreign sales and how they no longer want to take part in Western trade due to their barbaric and environmentally unsafe practices. The crowd cheers, at least a few hundred of them waving their arms and swinging their hats. He finishes by saying, “Alles Super!” the company’s slogan, and a bullet hits him in the chest, staining his crisp, white shirt.

 

Steve and Natasha both turn to see where it came from, somewhere at their back. Once again, it would be a place high enough with at least a couple exits and maybe a getaway helicopter already waiting. For all they know, he could already be gone. This time, Steve doesn’t want to run ahead – leaving Natasha behind him – for a chance to get to speak with his long-lost friend.

 

There’s a man bleeding out, and there are two Avengers in the vicinity. His life is a bit more important than finding Bucky. Steve pushes through the crowd of screaming people, jerking his head in the direction of the CEO. “Nat, let’s help him out until the medics get here. You still have some supplies on you?”

 

“Of course,” she says, trailing close behind.

 

Hundreds of people flee, knocking into their shoulders, nearly tripping Natasha in their hurry to get away. He catches her, righting her and they make it to the man surrounded by guards in dark suits talking on walkie-talkies. They don’t have anything to stop the bleeding sufficiently.

 

“Hey,” Steve tells one of the security guards, moving to let Natasha through. “She has bandages that can help until an ambulance arrives.” She hands them over, one of them smiling in relief.

 

These men seem as shaken as the crowd that immediately dispersed when they heard the gun shot. As much as he wants to stay and help, Bucky might try to finish the job if he doesn’t go after him. He has to be careful about when he leaves though.

 

Steve points to a dark building that fits the type of place Bucky would have chosen. Natasha is already frowning before he says, “I think the shooter might be in there. When the authorities get here, tell them to check in there first.”

 

Secretly, Steve hopes they take their time. He wants to be the one to find Bucky, to save him. He wants to make sure he knows nothing is his fault. That it’s all Hydra’s doing. But he can’t do any of that if the police get in the way.

 

Natasha wraps up the wound in no time, pressing both hands against it to make sure it’s secure. Steve kneels by her side, keeping an eye out for a second attack. Bucky’s job isn’t complete, so he might try to finish it by sneaking closer and aiming for somewhere more permanent. There’s no telling how much of his resolve carried through the brainwashing. It has to be some kind of mind control, Steve knows, because there’s no way in hell Bucky would ever agree to shoot CEOs and blow up companies just to better an organization’s future.

 

It’s not like WWII where there was a clear enemy. It’s not Nazis versus the Allies (with Hydra somewhere in the middle, interested in their own objectives). It’s destruction for personal gain. Bucky isn’t a monster. Steve has to keep believing no matter what. Bucky is _not_ a monster. Never was.

 

Natasha’s been calling Steve’s name a couple times. “Steve! Where’d you go?” she asks, her eyes narrowed in worry.

 

“Sorry. What did you say?” He straightens, glancing around just as a precaution.

 

“I said I think I saw someone on the roof across the street, the one with the red lettering and the ‘O’ unlit. Maybe you should tell the security--- _Steve!_ Steve, come back here, you promised!”

 

There’s not much Steve is single-minded about, but his loved ones will always be his top priority. It’s not that he doesn’t care about the CEO’s life – he does. He’s done what he can; he’s not a medic. But getting to Bucky, reminding him of his past, his _real_ self, will benefit them all. That CEO wouldn’t be in danger of a second attack, and Steve…Steve could have his best friend back, and the Winter Soldier could turn to ash with the rest of Hydra.

 

Natasha will have to understand.

 

\---

 

The roof leaves Steve with nothing, not even footprints. It’s like Bucky doesn’t exist, he isn’t human; he’s flitting from one victim to the next, never missing, never looking back. Maybe Hydra doesn’t give him a chance to feel remorse, regret. If anyone knows how to play with minds, it’s them.

 

In a corner of the roof, facing where Natasha is still keeping pressure on the CEO’s wound, Steve finds a bullet casing. So far, this is the only clue he has to track Bucky with, and it’s not much considering. Only a weapon’s specialist, a technical-minded person, could find him based solely on this. Natasha may not be one, but she’s nearly as good.

 

Steve’s pushing the casing into a pocket of his uniform when there are footfalls behind him. Once again, he doesn’t have his shield with him. That would have blown his cover instantly. A conscious choice, but maybe not the right one.

 

In one quick turn, he’s facing the attacker and charging towards him with his head down in case of shots fired. He manages to tackle the intruder to the ground. One wrist is warm and the other is cold, metal and slick like liquid. It only takes one second of distraction for Bucky to flip their positions and strike him right in the jaw. Steve, pushing with both knees to get him off his chest, rolls away and stands. Without the serum, he might have dislocated something. His eyes fixed on Bucky, he rubs the ache away. His other hand raises in case of an attack. It doesn’t come; Bucky narrows his eyes, painted dark to go with his outfit and shaggy hair.

 

“Bucky, who did this to you?” Steve asks. He can’t help himself, can’t keep his voice from cracking either. “I’m your friend.”

 

Bucky’s metal arm whirrs as its pieces click into a row of smooth metal. His other hand’s against the knife at his back, always ready to keep fighting. “I don’t know a Bucky. I have no friends.”

 

A car alarm goes off below and Bucky whips his head around to see what it is. Before Steve has a chance to explain, go into detail about who they are to each other, he’s leaping off the roof. The alarm stops when Bucky’s weight smashes it into the ground; Steve watches him escape, through lanes and between buildings. Then he’s too far, too quick for the eye, gone again.

 

\---

 

The TV in their hotel room has CNN; Natasha is watching it with a tight jaw, glancing over at Steve every so often so he can feel the heat of her glare. There’s a bruise on the right side of her face that wasn’t there before he chased Bucky up on the roof. Steve cares about her, but he doesn’t regret it. He’d do it all again if it meant getting closer to Bucky. The sad truth is he’d rather die by Bucky’s hand than without getting to see him ever again. The world can burn if it means being one step closer to Bucky.

 

 

A recent attack on CEO of Aral ,Stefan Brok, had left him in critical condition.

He was announcing his refusal to merge with a company overseas

when a bullet hit him an inch from his heart.

All evidence points to being a planned attack. One that could have been prevented

with more planning and boundaries.

Although two Avengers were in the area, possibly by

coincidence or in preparation for the attack –

 

At this point, Natasha turns up the TV, and throws the remote at Steve. “Listen,” she snaps, storming out of the room.

 

We have just received an update: Stefan Brok did not survive.

Witnesses say they saw Captain America chase after the suspected gunman

while Black Widow stayed behind with the CEO.

The gunman returned and shot Mr. Brok, and only him,

and was then collected by helicopter. Romanov was not seriously injured

but there’s no indication as to Captain America’s whereabouts now.

 

Steve stares at the screen, the remote in his lap, until the words are noise. His ears ring, his hands shake, his heart’s beating faster and faster. The noise turns to static, grating in his head, down his spine. He feels each heartbeat like it’s the last, pounding against his ribs. Natasha could have died; she could have been shot in the head like the CEO, and it would have been completely his fault. It’s funny how he was ready to let himself die, but putting it into perspective like this …what was he thinking? This isn’t a game, this isn’t a dream, this isn’t _Bucky_. Not the one Steve knows. This is Hydra, turning cogs in his brain, toying with him, pulling strings. Along the same vein, they’ve been playing with Steve. Maybe they don’t know what Bucky means to him, but in all likelihood, they do. They might be using him to keep Steve from stopping their plans, saving lives. They know if they put Bucky in front of Steve, whether or not he has his head on straight, Steve will choose him every time.

 

The worst part is they’re right. They’re right, and he put Natasha’s life in danger.

 

At midnight, the remote still in his lap, Steve looks around the room. Natasha hasn’t returned yet and the report is repeating for the third time. She might have gone back to the Avengers tower or called Fury to let him know Steve is out of commission, compromised. He is; she would be right to think so. It may very well be the right call. But what if it isn’t?

 

What if in the same way that Bucky is his biggest weakness, he’s the only one who can break through Bucky’s programming? What if every time he lies to Natasha or nearly gets himself killed, Bucky returns to Hydra with an image of their apartment in Brooklyn? Their struggles through winter as poor orphans? He could be the one to let the memories out, and Bucky’s the only person that Steve will ignore his duties for. What if –

 

The lock of the front door clicks, and she stalks inside. There’s makeup dabbed over her bruise, covering the worst of it. Maybe she doesn’t want the reminder of how little she can trust the so-called leader of the Avengers. The mistake is on her face, staring at her in the mirror, a painful reminder. Steve doesn’t say a word when she looks his way.

 

“I spoke to Fury,” she says plainly.

 

Steve nods, gripping the remote like an anchor. He can’t exit this moment, leave her like he’s been doing for the last couple of weeks. This is the result, and he has to face it.

 

“He agrees that being around you is a danger right now. I’m going to leave.” She sits next to Steve. “Without you.”

 

There’s a dry click instead of a response from Steve’s mouth. He nods again, unable to find a suitable response. The remote whines in his grip as, with each passing moment, he tightens his hold, squeezing. She takes it away, putting it aside. She holds his hand, trying to get his eyes on hers. Steve shakes his head while she stares at him. “I’m so sorry, Natasha. I understand you need to leave.”

 

Natasha smiles woefully, touching his cheek. “It’s okay, Steve. I thought about it, and I get it.” She leans her head on his shoulder. Her voice is softer when she says, “I’m going to keep helping you, but I can’t be there. It’s too dangerous for me. I’ll send SHIELD agents if you need them.”

 

Steve leans his head on hers, closing his eyes. The feeling is worse; he can see the purpling of her skin behind his lids, the proof that he’s too weak to be trusted. He sniffs, kissing the top of her head. “When do you leave?”

 

“In a bit,” she tells him, still holding his hand. “Be careful. We still need a leader back in New York.”

 

Once she stands, her fingers slipping from Steve’s, he feels the paper in his palm. The edges poke his skin, a prickle like thorns from a rose. He squeezes it tighter, letting it sting while she packs a bag and waves to him. Then he’s alone, nothing but his thoughts and his demons to keep with him.

 

_He might have bugged you in Germany, so I have to tell you this way._

_His next target will be in Cairo, Egypt._

_I’ll send you specifics when I get them._

_You better let him know how much you love him_

_Otherwise, none of this is worth it._

 

 


	3. Destination Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cairo, Egypt.

 

In Cairo, the next location is easy to find. Well, it’s easy in some ways: it’s a transport truck full of industrial and high-tech weaponry. The owners are probably an enemy of Hydra’s that they want to cut down before the fight even begins. The hard part is following the truck without being spotted by them or by the Winter Soldier who will most likely use an armoured vehicle. If either of them realizes Steve is on their tail, his best case scenario is ending up in a hospital bed with beeping machines again.

 

There’s a long stretch of road, a path that leaves Steve no chance of not being made while on his motorcycle. He turns on his transmitter, contacting Natasha. “Is there any way you could speak to the driver? Let him know I’m on his side.”

 

 _“I’ll see what I can do,”_ she says, the line buzzing over the distance between them.

 

The transport begins to slow down while Steve’s on its trail. It stops, parking off to the side. At least, Steve has his shield this time. He unhinges it, preparing for gunfire or some kind of warning. Instead, they wave him over, screaming in Arabic for his help. He knew he should have brushed up on a few languages before this mission started.

 

“Natasha,” he whispers into his earpiece. He stops his bike a few feet away, walking towards the flailing men. They bombard him with Arabic, pointing and shouting. He has no idea what any of them are saying but it’s certainly critical that he understands. He holds up a hand for them to give him a moment. “Natasha! I don’t know what they’re saying. I need a translation.”

 

He gives them a thumbs up, gesturing for them to start over their frantic speech. When they finish, he asks Natasha, “What did they say?”

 

_“There’s a bomb in the transport. I’ll contact Fury to help you disarm it. You’ll need to do it on your own. None of the agents will arrive in time.”_

 

The line goes dead, and Steve’s heart stops in his chest. Bucky’s faster than he expected; he already hit the truck and left the drivers to explode far away from him. If it weren’t for the fact that Steve was now the one stuck picking up the pieces, he’d be damn impressed with the Winter Soldier. (To be honest, he still is.)

 

“Where is it?” he asks the men. They look at him, their brows furrowed. “Boom! The boom! Where is it? Show me.” He points to his eyes then the truck.

 

“Ah!” one of them says, dragging Steve by the arm. It’s in the front, underneath the drink compartments. The clock counts down from 15:34. It’s less time than Steve expected. He doesn’t even have time for a crash course in disarming.

 

Natasha says, _“Okay. I have Fury on the line. I’ll transfer him.”_

 

“Hello?” Steve says, sitting in the driver’s seat. His palms are already sweating. To think what he’s going through for this man. “I’m looking at it. There are two cylinders with a blue liquid and about five wires.”

 

 _“Okay, good,”_ says Fury. _“What colour are the wires? Is there a red one?”_

 

Steve sees blue, yellow, green, orange, red. “Yes there’s a red one.” His hand is poised to yank it out just as Fury says, _“Do not touch that one. It will blow. Got it?”_

 

“Yes, got it.” Steve waves at the frantic men to move back. If he messes up, he doesn’t want their blood on his hands. It’s enough that he’s put friends in danger over this wild goose chase - that an innocent man was killed because of his obsessive behaviour. He’s not going to let the Hydra resistance die too. “The other ones are blue, yellow, green and orange.”

 

 _“Good,”_ says Nick. He’s silent for a moment _. “I think Natasha has dealt with one of those for SHIELD before, back when she first began. It’s old Soviet work again. Give me a second.”_

 

Steve murmurs under his breath, “You only have 11 minutes…”

 

 _“Steve?”_ It’s Natasha again. She sounds worried. _“Fury can’t help with that type, but I can. Send me a snapshot with your phone. How much time is left?”_

 

“Nine minutes and 46 seconds,” says Steve, his brow sweating. The wires look harmless - a child’s plaything. To think this small, rectangular box can blow up an 18-wheeler (and probably more). Times have certainly changed, and not only for the better. He clicks a shot, tries to send it over but the internet’s blocked for some reason.

 

“Nat! it won’t let me send. It says access is forbidden. Is it Hydra?”

 

 _“Could be,”_ she says. _“It’s in your phone right? Give me a second. I’ll hack in using your Bluetooth. Make sure it’s turned on.”_

 

“Hurry, Nat, less than 8 and a half minutes left.” The men are still too close, so Steve steps out of the truck and gently pushes them further away. He doesn’t know how wide the range is, but for their sake, he hopes he won’t need to.

 

 _“Okay, I got it. Wow,”_ she says. _“Okay, tell those guys to call for a pickup or something. The blast range is two miles.”_

 

“How can I tell them?” His voice may be slightly high from panic. Even the serum won’t help him to survive that. “I don’t speak Arabic, Natasha!”

 

_“I’ll tell you what to say. Tell them this--_ _Kent bhajh ela terk. Teshegheyl b'eyeda. It shouldn’t matter if your accent is bad. They’ll get the gist of it.”_

 

Steve tries his best to replicate that string of sounds he’s never heard in his life, and he must do a good job because the two men take off down the deserted road they came from. “I think it worked. They’re running. What did I say to them?”

 

 _“That they need to leave quickly. But it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to let you die, Steve,”_ she tells him. _“Now, I need you to take the orange and green wires. Cut them simultaneously.”_

 

Steve shuffles back into the front seat. Only six minutes left now. “I don’t have anything to cut with.” He digs around the compartments, knocking over a handgun and a lighter, both of which could cause him some problems. He throws them out the window – just in case. He reaches over the passenger seat and finds a small knife in the window compartment. These men were prepared for everything, but not explosives. “Okay. I’m cutting now. Orange and green, right?”

 

 _“Yes. At the exact same time.”_ Natasha’s voice sounds off, contained in a way she doesn’t usually sound even when she’s doing her spy business. She’s worried. She’s worried and she doesn’t want Steve to worry by letting it show.

 

He cuts them like she said to, and the timer slows down. It keeps ticking though. “It’s still going. At about half the speed it was before,” he tells her.

 

There’s static on the line, then Steve hears, _“---the blue one.”_

 

“What? I didn’t catch the beginning. You’re breaking up, Natasha.” Five minutes before it’s all over. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Nat? Nat, are you there?”

 

 _“I said you have to ---”_ Static interferes again. _“---the blue one.”_

 

“I’m going to take a wild guess here since I can’t make out the middle. Do I pull out the blue one?”

 

The tail-end of the word is the only thing that makes it through; it’s the only part that matters, in the end. _“—sss!”_

 

Steve yanks out the blue wire and the device stops ticking. The timer freezes at 3:10. The liquid that was cyan turns clear and starts bubbling. “Uh, Nat, is it supposed to bubble like this?”

 

_“Shit, he had a failsafe. You can take the device out and make a run for it. Bring the truck with you. You might need to pick up the men who were driving it.”_

 

Steve rips the device out with one arm, throws it out the open window and puts the truck in reverse. He steps on the gas so hard his foot nearly goes through the floor. He’s not going to deny that this is the most afraid he’s been – after the time he thought he wasn’t going to escape the Hydra facility with Bucky. Somehow it’s always related to Bucky, the one man he’d die for over and over and over…

 

The truck reverses quickly but he only has three minutes to get as far as he can. He’s still backing away, speeding, when he notices the two men in his rear-view mirror. He waves a hand at them, and they take off running and hollering. They must think he has the bomb with him. He doesn’t have time for more Arabic lessons so he can explain how the situation has changed. When he gets near enough, he grabs one, then the other, tossing them into the passenger side on top of each other. They both look down at the gap where the bomb was and up at him quizzically.

 

“It’s gone. We have to get far away. Boom!” He plants his shield in the dashboard in front of them, in case the explosion makes it this far. If he can save these two, it’s the only thing he could ask for. His conscience needs to be cleared; he can’t continue to be the leader of the Avengers with the guilt weighing on him as it is now.

 

They both whimper, huddling together behind the shield. From Steve’s side, he can kind of see the device. It’s a dot in the distance but it’s still too close. They have one minute to get farther, as far away as this truck will let them. It would have been faster with his bike, but the three of them wouldn’t all fit, at least not safely. This is his only option right now.

 

Traffic starts coming from behind and Steve waves an arm out the window. The two men do the same, yelling in Arabic pointing to the front where the device is now a speck of black. Luckily, the truck is large enough to block the traffic from passing, and he comes to a stop. He pulls out his shield, leading the two men with him into the stalled cars, pushing them all to hide behind the vehicles, inside the trunks if they fit. The rest of the people move further back, towards minivans and family car’s.

 

10, 9, 8, 7…

 

“Natasha, it’s almost time,” he tells a static-filled line. For once, he’s glad he doesn’t have a receiver to speak into; his hands are shaking too hard to hold anything. “If I don’t make it, I hope I was able to save these people. And that you can forgive me.” He can’t even muster a smile for the two men relying on him to save them.

 

The device goes off with a boom that shatters windows and nearly blows the 18-wheeler onto its side. Steve has his shield covering the two men, hiding behind someone’s Jeep, They all shriek at the same time, covering their ears and holding their children close as they cry. Steve keeps his eyes open; he wants to be aware of what’s happening. He wants to know if there’s a straggler he has to jump out and get. No one moves. They just keep wailing as the blast tramples over the cars and sends waves of sand their way.

 

The sand settles, the wind calms. The two men glance around; they smile at Steve, hugging him close. He pats them somewhat robotically. It’s not because he doesn’t like physical expressions of gratitude, quite the opposite. He just didn’t expect to survive, his hands still shaking uncontrollably. Glancing back at the traffic, heads pop out of their hiding spots, dirty from the sandstorm but no worse for wear. A baby coughs a bit, but the mother cradles him in her arms, kissing his fuzzy head.

 

Natasha’s voice is loud in the earpiece, shouting, _“Steve! Steve, can you hear me? Goddammit, Steve! You’re not allowed to die!”_

 

Steve is smiling as he says, “I’m fine. We’re all fine.” His eyes are welling up as he continues. “I saved them this time.” The two men pat him like he had done, their eyes also wet but their smiles so much wider. “I did it.”

 

 _“Yeah, I knew you would,”_ she says, sighing with relief. _“Get back to the hotel and sleep for a while. You’ll need it. His next target is South Africa.”_

 

Steve lodges his shield onto his back, looking around for his bike. It’s been blown away by the blast, crumpled up like paper. He can’t use it anymore. He certainly can’t use it to get back to the city.

 

“Can you tell me how to ask for a ride in Arabic?” he asks Natasha, smiling.


	4. Bucky: South Africa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV.

**Bucky: South Africa**

 

The Winter Soldier is not given a room or even a hideout. He won’t be staying long. _Bucky Bucky Bucky_ swims through his thoughts without colour, shape or taste. After he heard the name through video feed and old reports, he needed to learn more. That man looks exactly like _him_. He doesn’t know who Bucky is, doesn’t know why he should care, and why he does but doesn’t understand the meaning of the word. It’s a person, one dear to Captain America – a man of high value and integrity. He fought in a war, helped his country. He _looks_ exactly like him, but is he the same man? Does it mean he was good in another life -- not simply chaos forced by a hand that strikes him if he doesn’t listen?

 

It matters even if he doesn’t understand the meaning of the syllables thick on his tongue and dry like sandpaper. He stops thinking about it when a small, black child begins to gawk. His mother tugs him away, smiling worriedly at the Winter Soldier.

 

In South Africa, many people notice him; most are dressed in light colours, have black hair and speak with an accent similar to English but not quite. He knows English, but not Afrikaans. Most of the people are black, and whites are usually higher up in the food chain – even after the apartheid. Maybe they believe he’s a rich man, an employer. Perhaps if he speaks Russian, a language not common to this area, they will know he’s a tourist. Not someone to approach and pay attention to. Not someone in power but a stranger passing through.

 

There’s shade underneath a large tree, leaves fanned and waving in the breeze that comes and goes. He’s told to wait there by his controller. The director is no doubt angry that he failed his mission; Cairo still has their weapons and their lives, all thanks to Captain America.

 

A tall man with blue eyes, blond hair and a soft gaze. He smells of something familiar that have passed over The Winter Soldier like a tide. He doesn’t know how to respond to that man. That enemy. If he knows ‘Bucky’ then he doesn’t know _him_. They are not the same man. At least, they can’t be. He tests the feeling of having a friend, lets it simmer and drops it off quick and silent. He would make him weak, cause him to fail. Not that he needed memories for that to occur in Egypt.

 

The Winter Soldier doesn’t need to look to know that his controller has arrived. The man doesn’t touch his shoulder; no one does. Laying a hand on him means either threat or a rupture of his impermanent existence as he knows it. They decide when he’s been awake too long and stub him out like a cigarette. They can’t allow him to feel again because then he might not be as strong, as worthy of his title, of his previous victories. In all fairness, he never asked to be this weapon. He just doesn’t know how to stop anymore. It’s harder to interrupt a step when your toes are already bracing for impact against cement. That’s his entire life now: preparing for the next step.

 

His controller whispers in Russian, “ _This is your last chance. You must leave a trail for Captain America. Lead him to you here. Your mission will be to kill him on sight_.”

 

“Why is he following me?” asks the Winter Soldier. “Every time he’s close enough to retain or kill me, he stops and tries to remind me of the past. Why am I important to him?”

 

“Do not let him sway you from Hydra’s missions. He is a distraction. He is trying to confuse you. We know your true past,” says the controller, glancing around behind his dark shades. He presses his fingers to his earpiece, receiving orders.

 

There’s a bead of sweat at his brows, unrelated to the heat of the country or his dark attire. He’s lying to him. He’s lying and there’s an important piece of information that he doesn’t want to pass on to him. It probably has something to do with “Bucky” and a life he can only touch if he closes his eyes. In cryofreeze, the deepest of sleeps, he sees a blond head pressed to his shoulder, shorter and frailer. Nothing like Captain America, his large frame, his confident gait.

 

It doesn’t keep the curiosity tamped down, though. He knows better than to ask someone who allows him to be reset and locked in cages like a lab subject. He won’t receive truth from this type of man. There’s no caring in him, nothing to demonstrate he has a conscience or any sense of justice. He’s nothing like Captain America on the video feed who kept calling out for ‘Bucky,’ unarmed and his arms wide, nearly dying in the process. If only he wasn’t wiped in between, he might be able to feel something more than interest.

 

The controller notices his eyes welling up, the dampness at the corners of them. He doesn’t know where it came from. It feels new, unlike any of the emotions he’s had in this new life. There’s an ache in his chest with want to know more about the soldier in blue, the only one who hasn’t come at him with weapons and orders for him to disappear. He’s the only person who saw him and didn’t want to see anything else; he was willing to let his partner die just to be one step closer to the Winter Soldier.

 

Somehow, the title feels rough and foreign. It doesn’t roll easy off his tongue anymore. It’s a burden without reason. An unreliable term. A lifeless being inside of a larger hole, constantly being emptied of meaning and cause. There’s no emotion attached to the Winter Soldier, but he can imagine how much history is linked to ‘Bucky.’

 

The slap, when it hits his cheek, doesn’t surprise him. “It is your duty to help our organization and build the country to its fullest potential. Did you forget why we woke you? We saved you from the ice and snow. Do not turn on your rescuers. Without us, you would be nothing. You would not exist,” says the controller, conveying these words from someone on his earpiece. It’s probably Pierce back in the United States. He only travels if he has to make a public appearance.

 

Bucky tells him, “I’m already nothing to the world. No one knows of me or why I’m here. How is that different from being dead?”

 

The controller growls and says into his ear, “The asset has been compromised. Reset required.”

 

Before the Winter Soldier can wipe the water from his eyes, analyzing the texture of it and how it represents so much of his life that’s missing, he hears Hydra agents surround him. There’s no use fighting: his options are dying and never seeing Captain America again (never learning the truth of who he is) or being wiped and having to go through this learning process all over again. The latter seems to be the wiser of the two.

 

If there’s a chance, even one in a billion, he has to take it. No one else is willing to explain who ‘Bucky’ is, who the man Captain America is willing to risk his life for is. Why does he look so much like him?

 

A blow to the back of the head knocks him out, and when his eyes reopen, the device squeezes at the top of his skull. He’s been told that down in this basement no one can hear him scream; that he can lash out and plead all he wants, but it won’t make the pain any easier on him. This is why he started not to feel. Shocks and jolts inside his mind, zapping his brain, push him away from emotions. If they are all like this, what’s the point?

 

This time there’s a word at the edge of his lips, a memory he’s frantically trying to grasp through shaking fingertips, the name of someone who’s dear to him: _Steve_.

 

The next time the Winter Soldier awakens, he’s told to kill Captain America and he doesn’t blink at the command.


	5. Destination Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> South Africa, Steve POV.

South Africa offers Steve nothing but more disappointment. Luckily, there aren’t any explosives to disarm or people to save from stray bullets, because there’s not much of anything. One eye witness says the man in dark clothing speaking Russian was knocked unconscious and thrown into the back of a US military-grade vehicle. That woman was homeless, and the only one unafraid of sharing the information; the rest of the onlookers kept their mouths shut and didn’t risk divulging anything in case that truck returns for them.

 

It’s funny how the people with the least offer up the most.

 

Natasha’s voice remains a comfort in his ear, talking him through another dead end. She offers more than enough advice and even tidbits of what’s happening in New York. It’s what keeps him going forward; without it, he would have given up already. For all Steve knows, Bucky could be dead now for failing his last mission.

 

 _“I’m not quite in the tower, a few blocks away, but Tony is acting weird. And before you say it – I mean more than usual.”_ She laughs, taking a sip of something that must be hot since she curses under her breath. _“Apparently, he won’t let anyone up into the penthouse. Thor told me. Do you remember him ever doing that?”_

 

“If he’s working, sure. Maybe he’s busy with something for Bruce and doesn’t want the others hurt?” says Steve, pressing his hand against the tree where Bucky was sighted. If he can just find something here, anything to tell him it’s not all for nothing. He can’t take losing him a second time when he’s so close to getting him away from all this misery for good.

 

 _“He’s always working though. What’s different about this? Just cause it’s the Hulk? We both know Thor could take him,”_ says Natasha, her tone turning more serious. _“Something must be up. Do you think I should check it out?”_

 

“Can you tell me where I need to go next first? If anywhere,” says Steve with a sigh. People are watching him grind the dirt and dust between his fingertips. He just wants to feel Bucky’s presence, be near him, even if he doesn’t remember a thing from before the fall.

 

There’s static on his earpiece again, a buzz that makes him yank it out for a second. When he puts it back in, it’s not Natasha’s voice, but Alexander Pierce. Pierce is head of SHIELD so Steve’s heard about him mostly through Fury and in a couple of speeches. Being a politician puts him in the open, makes him seem trustworthy, while he’s also leading SHIELD with a hidden agenda for Hydra. It’s been the perfect cover. Steve always thought there was something too rigid about him.

 

_“Hello Rogers, I suppose you know who I am. I know we only met a couple times but—”_

 

Steve cuts in with, “Yes, I know, Pierce. What do you want?” he tries to get Natasha back on the line so she can hear this mockery; the SHIELD they both thought was just and incorruptible, straddling the grey line to keep a perfect balance. Turns out they’ve been mostly on the dark side, feigning innocence.

 

 _“Good, good. Saves me the trouble of explaining. See, you’re going to come to New Zealand, the northland region where there’s a wonderful forest reserve. It’s called Waipoua. Do you need me to spell it?”_ he says, his smirk clear in his unabashed tone.

 

“I’ll Google it,” grits Steve, glancing around the people with long robes and pale clothing. No one seems to be involved, at least not as far as he can tell. “Anything else?”

 

_“Come alone and tell no one where you’re going. If I find out Fury or Romanov hear even a word of our conversation, I will terminate the Winter Soldier, your old pal. How’s that sound?”_

 

“I’ll be there, but I need some time.”

 

 _“Yes, I forgot about that whole South African fiasco.”_ He laughs with a burst of mirth. _“You have twenty four hours,”_ he finishes gravely. The line cuts off and goes back to static.

 

Natasha’s in Steve’s ear again, calling his name. _“Can you hear me? Hello? Steve?”_

 

“I can hear you. I guess being in Africa took a toll on the equipment.” He chuckles, covering up his nerves with the sound. His teeth dig into his lips almost drawing blood. If they lay a finger on Bucky, he is going to tear the entirety of SHIELD down – good or not. “I thought about the Tony situation: I think you should check it out. I just remembered Bruce is lending a hand to Bolivians who were hit with the quake a couple weeks back.”

 

 _“That’s right. I forgot,”_ she says, pensive. _“Thanks, I’ll get back to you if I figure out where Bucky is going to be next.”_

 

Tony’s erratic behaviour is a small blessing; if it weren’t for him, Natasha would have been able to tell he was hiding something. He would have been found out and Bucky would be dead because neither of them would have been able to save him in time. Not when his only indication is that it’s in the northern part of New Zealand and it’s a forest, next to one of the biggest trees. That could be anywhere.

 

It might be harder for Steve to get to the meeting point without Natasha’s directions in his ear, but it’s not impossible. Twenty four hours is more than generous – which says a lot about why he needs to show up alone. More than likely it’s a trap, one he’s not meant to get out of. By himself, without Thor or Iron Man or Hulk, he’s just a man who can break bones and keep fighting; fall from way up and keep running. He can jump high, sprint and leap, and not break a sweat. But in the end, there’s always a limit. They’ll likely find it, pushing until Steve’s past it. Until even his asthmatic inner self doesn’t have the strength to get up and keep surviving.

 

There’s no doubt of where this is going, but Steve can’t walk away now. Bucky will be there; that’s all that matters.

 


	6. Bucky: The Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV in New Zealand.

 

The Winter Soldier feels only heat or cold. There’s nothing in between. No emotional response to being slapped, shoved or pushed into the back of an armoured truck. He’s moved around like a puppet, molded to fit into any situation, any assassination he’s required to complete.

 

They tell him to find Waipoua forest, the wooded lookout next to a tree called Te Matua Ngahere. He finds it; it’s wider than he expected. A girth it would take multiple people to wrap their arms around. Objectively, he can appreciate the beauty of such an old tree. He can understand why it’s here. And yet, it has no use to him. It won’t help him end Captain America like he was ordered to.

 

Speaking of which, Captain America is meant to be arriving soon. Maybe Winter Soldier should step past the bannister and watch from behind it. Then launch his assault when the mark comes close enough. Most people don’t have reflexes fast as his; perhaps Captain America does.

 

The Winter Soldier won’t risk the cameras above the lookout tracking his movement with a high pitched buzz. He has no interest in expending more energy than necessary to kill a few extra people – the security guards. He attaches a scrambler to each camera which will send them a different image than reality. It should buy him enough time to complete his mission.

There’s a bench off to the side, in the corner of this hexagonal barrier between visitors and the protected kauri trees. He might as well observe while he’s here, remind himself what he needs to do, prepare his muscles and mind.

 

Light seeps through from above, through the trees where leaves allow it. If he just closes his eyes, he knows he could feel something for this view, the painting this makes in his mind. It’s against his orders, though. _Kill,_ they said; _bury Captain America next to the Lord of the Forest_ , they said; _don’t leave there until it’s done,_ they told him. He intends to end this – whether he’s alive or not. Leaving here without killing that man would mean he would take his place in death; they would find a replacement. He’s likely not the only person they’ve tested cryogenics or the serum on, and he won’t be of use if he doesn’t complete this.

 

\---

 

The Winter Soldier does not rest unless ordered to. Falling asleep here, during a mission, was not the case; his eyes closed of their own accord. He’s just so tired lately, his eyes are burning with memories that flay his skin, his fingers where they used to be before metal took their place. He remembers holding onto somebody. Someone important, a friend – his family. It makes no difference; he can’t remember their face or who they are to him anymore.

 

Across from him, silent save for a few murmured words, is his target. “Hey, Bucky,” he says, smiling with the warmth of at least half a galaxy of suns. His eyes are soft, but his shoulders betray his mask of calm. He’s worried, apprehensive. The Winter Soldier is a piece of machinery more than capable of killing even the greatest super soldier.

 

It’s about time they face it. The end is going to come eventually, why not bring it closer to them?

 

As soon as he stands, Captain America follows suit. He’s still smiling. He brought his shield this time; the Winter Soldier saw the recordings of their previous meetings. This man has learned not to underestimate him, even if he looks like his so-called ‘Bucky.’

 

Underneath the bench, he had placed a large, multi-shot, weapon. A burst of bullets that could tear through concrete if needed. Captain America is just a man; if he is hit with this from this distance, the damage to his insides will be irreparable. The Winter Soldier swallows at the thought of him whimpering, holding the blood that spills from his stomach. It touches something inside him, deeply. He almost wants to take the pain for him.

 

But _why_?

 

It shouldn’t matter what happens to him. It doesn’t. He is a weapon; he must kill. His target is here. His shield still hinged behind him. This is the best moment to attack – the only shot he’ll get so clearly.

 

The Winter Soldier flips the bench, grasping for the gun, but Captain America tackles him. They fall against the bannister together. Splints break against his metal arm, and others press into his ribs. He has enough layers of clothing to block their penetration.

 

Captain America doesn’t strike like he expects, his eyes soften as he gazes at Winter Soldier; they’re already welling up. He cups the Winter Soldier’s face in his palms. “Hey, hey, Bucky. Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. I’ve known you our entire lives.”

 

It’s nonsense, tactics. He was warned that his enemy would try to soften him. It isn’t going to work. He elbows the man in the throat, pushes him back with both knees and topples onto his chest. The gun is elsewhere, out in the trees, hidden, buried beneath leaves. The Winter Soldier presses his metal arm to Captain America’s throat, squeezing. “I don’t know you!” he grits, but his eyes feel different, moist at the edges.

 

In a flash he’s on his knees, his fist through the floorboards with Captain America standing behind him, face flushed and rubbing at the marks around his neck. “You do. I’m your best friend, Buck. I failed you. I failed you back on that train. I let you fall; I wasn’t strong enough. I’m here now. I’m sorry,” he says, coughing out a wheeze.

 

A wheeze of breath like someone with asthma. A wheeze that presses into the Winter Soldier’s chest like a dagger, filling his lungs like cigarette smoke that always made him feel guilty. He shakes his head, growling out a feral sound that means nothing but warns his mark that he won’t leave here unscathed. This will end even if neither of them want it to. Hydra is watching. Hydra is always watching, and if he fails then it’s two instead of one victim today.

 

Captain America’s eyes are red-rimmed. He still hasn’t removed his shield from behind him. It would be a pity to kill him without knowing its full capacity. The Winter Soldier charges, two knives at the ready – one from his hip, the other from his boot – and he slashes at him. The man blocks the first, doesn’t expect the second. It catches him right below the eye, a cut deep enough that the blood drips down to his lips. He’s not smiling this time.

 

“Bucky, stop! I’m your friend. I don’t want to hurt you,” he tells the Winter Soldier.

 

“Stop it!” he roars back. “I’m not your friend. I have nobody. I am nothing but a weapon. There is no Bucky. Your friend is dead!”

 

“No, please,” begs Captain America, moving forward. His shield comes off his back and the Winter Soldier couldn’t have asked for a better gift.

 

A deep sound reverberates from the shield when his knife hits it instead of the man’s chest. The knife squeals like a chalkboard when he tries to slice through it, the whirrs of his metal arm trying to push past an immovable barrier. It’s the ultimate defence, and he is the ultimate weapon.

 

Somehow, that seems apt to him.

 

“I have to complete my mission,” he hisses as Captain America flips him through the air and slams him to the boards, one hand pinned behind his back. He doesn’t mind dislocating his arm, the one that’s human and flesh. He’s done it before. He might even break it and be given another metal weapon for his persistence.

 

“No, you don’t. I can help you,” he says, struggling to keep the Winter Soldier pinned. “I promise I will protect you with my life.”

 

“I don’t want you to live. I want you to die!” he howls, twisting until he has his legs beneath his body, pushing them up into the air. Captain America loses his balance and steps back. He’s standing the opposite way, so he kneels down and slices as he turns to face the man. His knife cuts through his calf, forcing him to the ground in pain. It’s the perfect opportunity to end it, cut his throat and let him bleed out.

 

No one’s around, not even a security guard yet.

 

Captain America lets his shield fall with an echoing sound; heavy like clouds rolling in for a storm, heavy like the blood that still seeps from the cut beneath his eyelid. The winter soldier reels back and punches, metal on skin. It makes a crack like bones denting, but the man doesn’t flinch. He takes it, then another, and another. The knife is in his human hand, but he can’t get himself to use it. Not against someone who’s unwilling to keep fighting.

 

He says, “If this is it, Buck, I’m happy I got to see you again.” An unarmed hand reaches out for the Winter Soldier, touching his cheek. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”

 

A shout bursts from his chest so suddenly he doesn’t realize it’s coming from him. It tingles in his vocal muscles, his eyes blur with a dampness he’s never had before. The man refuses not to smile, and he can’t stand it. It’s too much; he needs to make it disappear. He slams both fists into him, knocking him to the floor. He hovers over Captain America, punching until he can’t smile because his face is too swollen, his eye only half-open, the other bleeding more profusely. The shield is still on the ground next to him.

 

“I hope you can forgive me,” whispers the man, coughing up a clot of blood. His lips turn ruby red from it. “I never meant to let you fall. We couldn’t find you afterwards.”

 

The Winter Soldier can’t make sense of this. This man’s being pummelled, closer to death than he was on any other of their encounters, and he’s asking for forgiveness from him. He’s asking to be redeemed for something that has no name in the Winter Soldier’s head. His life is completely in his hands, and still he doesn’t want to protect himself.

 

“Why aren’t you fighting me? Fight me! Hit me now!” he screams, shaking Captain America by the collar. When that gets no response, he picks up his knife and presses it into his chest as deep as he can, right through his ribs.

 

The man wheezes now, his face battered, but he’s still not resisting. One of his hands comes up, slow and tentative, stroking through the Winter Soldier’s hair. “I could never fight you, Buck. It’s just me and you against the world.”

 

His body sags, eyes sliding closed and mouth slightly parted. With every breath, his chest wheezes more. The Winter Soldier leans closer, listening against his lips. He can hear the hitch, the unfortunate lung that’s collapsing from the knife wound he inflicted.

 

The sound gets worse, a whistle of air that shouldn’t be, seeping like a balloon being pressed too tight between palms. It reminds the Winter Soldier of something, someone. A long time ago, a man with blond hair, blue eyes, the biggest heart in New York, constantly bruised from fights that he couldn’t stay out of.

 

Each time he returned home, sneaking his way in not to be scolded by a man who was bigger, had dark hair, charmed every girl, but loved to be with this man the most. In reality, one of them was always better, but he didn’t admit it because he knew the man would be angry if he said it. He wouldn’t even let his friend tend to the wounds or go out and repair his pride with fists that could handle the damage. This small, brave little guy always won because he did what was right; and as repayment he nearly died every winter. A winter sorrow that came and never left, year after year, making him sick, wheeze from the cold, wish he was dead. He didn’t succumb because his friend, his friend wouldn’t let him. His friend was by his side with warm towels, blankets and his entire body’s worth of heat. He smothered him with affection in those seasons because normally he didn’t want to endure it.

 

His friend…his friend had a name, had a nickname that was repeated in different tones, intonations, with anger, happiness, sorrow, despair…what was it? What was it?

 

The man – the man is who’s important. The man wheezing below him, the man in his mind, the man with blond hair – is the same one he knows from when he only spoke one language, cared about justice, loved teasing and defending women.

 

The Winter Soldier pants, looking down at the man. He’s a friend. He remembers now. He knows him. Steve is his name. Steve Rogers. Captain America. A kid with a heart of gold. His friend ‘til the end of the line.

 

Frantic, he leans in again; he’s still breathing. He must have a phone. Searching in pockets of the dark, navy uniform he finds a device for his ear. He wasn’t even using it – he could have easily called for help, backup, anything. This man is an idiot, this _Steve_. He’s still a punk.

 

The device turns on as soon as he slips it into his ear. “Hello? I need help.”

 

 _“Who is this?”_ a woman says. _“What did you do to Steve?”_

 

“He has a collapsed lung, maybe a concussion. Come and find him in the Waipoua Forest, northland of New Zealand, before Hydra does. He is breathing but I can’t say for how long.”

 

He pulls out the earpiece and drops it where he was meant to bury Steve’s body among the legendary trees. Maybe it will buy him some time if the agents find it. He might have a chance to pray that this man’s life isn’t about to expire when he’s finally starting to remember what matters.

 

The Winter Soldier wants to leave a note, but he can’t think of anything adequate. In the end, he leaves nothing and tells no one that his mission is incomplete. The forest can buy him time to get away from his controller and anyone else who may want to terminate him.


	7. Steve's Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in NY

The wires and machinery this time feel more ominous. He didn’t betray Natasha; he was told not to say a word. He didn’t want to endanger her or anyone else. Besides, it was his dumb idea to go hunt down a Hydra-owned assassin. It was his idiotic heart that refused to let go, turn down any opportunity, no matter how final the outcome. Steve just hopes he succeeded this time – that he’s alive and recovering in New York because Bucky remembered something, _anything_.

 

Natasha is next to him, a familiar pull between her brows. She files her nails, the magazine tucked underneath her butt on the wooden chair; he can see it peeking out from where her legs are crossed. He had no idea she was into classic cars from the way she keeps making fun of his era and everyone from his generation.

 

“The Winter Soldier,” she starts, then clears her throat. “He called me. Told me where to pick you up.” She eyes him, tilting her head slightly. “Did he seem different? Do you think he remembers enough?”

 

“He didn’t kill me,” laughs Steve weakly, covering up the fact that his insides feel like a pile of rubble landed on them. It could have been worse, really. An end was so close - a steady approach that Steve didn’t avoid, just waited for. Because it was like Bucky had died again, not knowing him. And if that was the case, he saw no point in being around to watch this fall.

 

She pulls the magazine out from under her, flapping it onto Steve’s thigh. “Here, old man. Maybe it’ll bring back memories of when you were younger.” She stands, stretching her arms above her head. “My time’s up. Thor’s waiting outside the door. He brought a soldier who ended up using the weapons you saved from the explosion.”

 

That’s…unexpected. Why would anyone bother coming here all the way from Cairo? It’s not like he saved their life or anything. Steve sits up, trying to seem presentable and not like the muck underneath his nails he can’t seem to get rid of. There’s a rubbery feeling to his limbs, probably a side effect of the medication, and consequently it takes him a while to sit up straighter.

 

Luckily, Thor is the first person to greet him. Actually, it’s more of a desperate pace. A rush inside that ends abruptly as he nearly leaps onto the bed with Steve, crushing his hands in his large, warm palms. His touch is always gentler after he’s settled, calmer; he can control his strength better after he breathes a couple times. Behind him is a black man, clearly military from his modest way of dressing and his posture. He smiles politely, nodding his head when Steve makes eye contact with him.

 

The man says, “Hey, Captain Rogers. My name’s Sam Wilson. I was on duty in Egypt when the Winter Soldier attempted to steal our weaponry. I’m glad as all hell that you stopped it the way you did. Nothing short of a miracle.”

 

“I was just doing what was right,” says Steve, reaching out a hand for Sam. “Nice to meet you by the way.

 

Thor smiles as Steve shakes Sam’s hand, his shoulders relaxing; as if he expected Steve would be too weak to even do that. As if he might break if he moved or coughed or stretched in the slightest. Natasha must have said something – her and her fierce protectiveness – and Steve’s going to have words with her about it. He doesn’t need every Avenger barging in here expecting him on his deathbed. He’s far from it.

 

Sam takes a seat on the right and Thor on the left. They both half-watch Steve, almost like they expect something to go wrong – for him to collapse without warning. Maybe they’re taking shifts ‘guarding’ him in case The Winter Soldier returns to finish the job. That could be it. Not that they shouldn’t have more pressing matters to deal with. Natasha didn’t say anything about it, but Steve knows there must be something going on. He just can’t find out what yet. This bed is going to be his home for a little while.

 

Thor is uncharacteristically quiet since he’s stepped in, gazing at Steve like he might shatter if he speaks. He touches his shoulder, his wrist, but he never says a word about it. Asgardian medicine is more advanced, so maybe this is his way of verifying that everything’s getting better. From the soft look on his face, Steve must be healing okay.

 

Sam clears his throat, grabbing the magazine from Steve’s lap. “Man, it’s good to be back in the US. Africa is a tough place to be. Those people are survivors, I gotta give ‘em that.”

 

Steve nods. “Oh, yeah. Absolutely. I’ve never seen such courage in men and women’s eyes before. That bomb was going off and they just looked up and accepted whatever God would decide.”

 

Whistling, Sam flicks the pages. “I can’t beat that,” he says, smiling. “My tour’s over now. I guess I’ll be visiting you for a while, Captain.”

 

“Call me Steve,” he says, taking the magazine that’s offered to him. “Take care of yourself.”

 

“I’d tell you to do the same, but I see you have a God of Thunder watching over you.” He grins, patting Thor on the arm as he passes. “Take it easy, guys.”

 

Thor nods curtly, turning his attention back to Steve. “He seems to be a kind man.” He presses his fingers to the inside of Steve’s wrist, the scars barely visible anymore.

 

“I think you’re right,” says Steve. He pushes himself forward, holding Thor’s hands in his. “I’m sorry if I worried you or Loki. Or anyone else for that matter. I just – I couldn’t let my friend slip through my fingers again.”

 

It gets very quiet for a moment, just the sound of Thor’s deep breathing filling the small hospital room. Steve’s thankful it’s private because he may be about to get hit or kissed, he’s not sure which look is prevailing yet. There’s a tightness to Thor’s jaw that can’t be anything but pain, though. “I cannot speak for the others, but I would have mourned deeply if you had fallen.” He slides his hand to Steve’s shoulder. “However, seeing you alive and smiling gives me strength to continue my duty – despite your heart belonging to someone else.”

 

“You- you _knew_?” His throat convulses as he swallows, dread settling in his chest. “Did Natasha say something?” whispers Steve, ducking his head guiltily. He wanted to explain properly; how he didn’t even know himself how strongly he needed Bucky back in his life. How the world felt empty for so long without him.

 

Thor shakes his head, one side of his mouth lifting. “No, of course not. She would not interfere in such a way.” He squeezes Steve’s shoulder, rubbing gently. “I can see it in your gaze. You are a man smitten, and it was never quite the case when you looked at Loki and I.”

Steve leans forward, closer, scoots in so it’s more intimate of a conversation. “I’m sorry, I wanted to say—”

 

“Nonsense!” interjects Thor. “I understand how confusing love can be, and I am happy you have found someone to complete you in such a way. Though, I will admit I wish your heart had swayed my way.” He leans his forehead against Steve’s, his eyes closing. “I will visit as long as you stay in this medical facility. You are, and will remain, a dear friend of mine. No matter where our hearts’ desires lie.”

 

It’s enough to make Steve’s eyes wet, his lips red from the biting he’s been doing. He has to break eye contact, wiping away the tears that almost fall. Thor chuckles, clapping him on the shoulder a couple times. “Let us speak of something else now. Tell me, how was it travelling to such diverse communities?”

 

“Where do I even start…” laughs Steve, letting his head fall back against his pillows. The disinfectant doesn’t bother his nose as much this time. He rubs his eyes one last time and begins from Paris.

 

\---

 

As expected, Steve’s seldom left alone. Just like he thought, Natasha believes the Winter Soldier will be back to kill him. For a soviet warrior, an incomplete mission is like leaving a wound gaping. Right now, it must be festering because it’s been a week and still no sign of Bucky. It may possibly be due to the daily visits from Thor, Sam, Natasha, Clint and even Bruce – as soon as he has returned from Bolivia.

 

When Natasha turns her attention fully to Tony, the time he spent with her is replaced by magazines and getting them yanked out of his grasp by Sam whenever he decides to swagger in. (Neither of them mention how Vogue is their favourite to flip through.) Natasha says she’s giving Tony a look-over because he’s probably doing military projects again – which is possible – but Steve thinks, truthfully, that she’s just pissed he hasn’t been visiting as much as them. Even Sam, a relative stranger, has spent hours - sometimes entire days - keeping Steve company as he heals up.

 

Thor tries his best to creep in and startle Steve, since he’s so busy reading; but it never quite works out. It turns into a game, which is the interesting part. A large, blond man thinking if he crawls or wears clothes suited for a ninja, it will somehow mask his mouth-breathing or his self-talk that he doesn’t realize he’s saying aloud. The whole thing is hilarious, and as much as Steve wants to feel sorry for him, it’s part of his charm. It’s why it’s impossible not to love him.

 

For some unknown reason, Clint brings his bow set along and sharpens his arrowheads. He says it’s “Cause I don’t have time otherwise. Might as well do it while I’m watching an old man, withering away in bed.” He could have told Steve if he was this bored, and Steve would have tried harder to keep him entertained. But when he mentions that, Clint tsks, and puts his equipment under the bed. “ _Seriously_? I was kidding, Rogers. You think I’d be that blunt about my true feelings? You disappoint me.”

 

“So what you’re saying is it’s more fun to pretend you like someone when you don’t, and the opposite when you do?” asks Steve, raising a brow. He has his hands crossed over the latest issue of Vogue, too ashamed to look through it while Clint is here.

 

Clint laughs, picking his arrows back up. “You are one smart cookie, Cap. Everyone’s got it wrong about you war guys. You’re the best.”

 

“Thanks…I guess?” stutters Steve, confused on multiple levels now. This must have something to do with Clint being so close to Natasha and her spy tactics. Everything has to turn into some psychological puzzle.

 

“Mmhm,” says Clint, his hands shining the edges of another arrowhead.

 

There’s been no visit from Tony, though he called a couple times. It wouldn’t worry Steve as much as it does if Natasha’s thinking pattern wasn’t rubbing off on him. Now he’s paranoid; now he’s worried that Bucky’s brainwashing will kick back in, and it’s just minutes, days, weeks until he’s fighting him all over again – that dark side of him. It’s like each time he thinks there’s progress, they push Bucky back even further, and it’s harder to get him back to the surface again.

 

\----

 

Bruce’s presence is almost the same as when he’s the Hulk, which may or may not frighten him if Steve ever mentioned it. He’s not loud and aggressive (or green), but he’s certainly as easy to understand, throws entire rooms into uproars with his mere presence, and prefers to end things simply rather than looking for complicated solutions.

 

Steve figures all this out while testing him with a Cosmopolitain quiz: what kind of girlfriend are you? His result was ‘silent assertive.’ Similar to the strong, silent type, that kind of describes Hulk pretty well. There have been mishaps where he’s shown up, uncalled for, while there was no danger around. Usually, he just sat around and watched a movie or ate some pizza, burping loudly.

 

The Avengers all like Bruce whether he’s green or not. He’s the same man on the inside, just with the capacity to turn into a ragemonster and defend a city against invading aliens. That’s got to count for something. And right now he’s kicking Steve’s behind at tic tac toe – a game that Steve never realized there could be a winning combination to. There must be, because no matter where Steve puts his ‘o’ Bruce’s x shows up and knock him down easy. It’s frustrating, is what it is.

 

Steve can (nearly) disarm a bomb, take down an entire unit of men, command a big, giant, green beast, get two gods in bed with him, die a couple of times and be revived – but he can’t win at a game involving nine spaces and two types of symbols? It’s a tragedy. It’s insult after insult. He’s turning red and Bruce isn’t green because there’s no anger or envy. He’s laughing though, so that’s a plus in Steve’s book.

 

So, they keep playing every time he shows up; and then Steve’s finally told he can leave, and he has no idea what to do with himself. He almost wants to break one of his arms so he can stay in the safety of these white walls longer. If the medical personnel weren’texhausted from fending off reporters and fans trying to get in, he might have considered it.


	8. Bucky's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brooklyn is where the heart leads.

 

They allow Steve to take an extra day in the hospital when they see how nervous he is about leaving. He’s hesitant to leave and break the fragile bubble of friends he’s collected; it’s stupid, he knows, he just can’t stop himself from thinking it. That and the furtive way Thor and Bruce glance around the last time they visit him – like Natasha has convinced them about Bucky coming back, too. In the end, Steve leaves all by himself, and doesn’t make a fuss about it. It’s not like he just lost a man he loves dearly for the second time. Though, in a way, it is. And meanwhile, Natasha keeps sending him messages about whether he’s been shot yet.

 

Sam bumps into him at a local Starbucks where he’s buying two lattes for them. They were supposed to meet at the hospital entrance and walk over to the tower together. Steve’s not quite ready though. He needs a bit more time to come to terms with this giant failure looming over him, and this state full of his childhood memories all linked to Bucky.

 

Sam says, “If you want, I can take your suit and stuff to the tower. Give you some time to be on your own. We haven’t left you alone for two weeks. That must have got you edgy.” He smiles, not teasing for once. He’s deadly serious, and Steve is so grateful to have a soldier like him around to understand the after-effects. The others aren’t quite like them; don’t take it the same way.

 

“I’d really appreciate it. I’d owe you one,” Steve tells him, nearly sloshing chai tea onto his shirt when he reaches forward to grip his shoulder.

 

Sam edges back, chuckling. “Hey there, no need to get messy.” He slides on his black sunglasses, taking the duffel from Steve. Natasha already took his shield even before he was hospitalized. “I’ll see you later? Maybe you can introduce me to your famous friends I haven’t met.”

 

They both know only Tony’s left, but Sam’s nice enough not to point that out. He probably doesn’t want to encourage Natasha’s worry any more than Steve does; she’s so used to finding spies and assassins at every corner now that she’s suspecting Iron Man in his own home. But that just doesn’t make sense: why purposely put them in danger somewhere that he lives himself?

 

Steve waves to Sam one last time, feeling lighter but at the same time missing the weight of his duffel to distract him from what he’s really going through. He had gone instantly from a planned, careful life in New York to suddenly rushing across the world – being reckless and selfish – and nearly dying twice without any of his friends around. That’s not how Steve is normally. Likewise, Bucky probably never disobeyed Hydra before they found each other face to face either.

 

Since he has no bag, he holds his chai tea with both hands, sipping. Some people recognize him, of course; mostly because he forgot to put on a baseball cap. He buys one in a souvenir shop and feels immensely better. Less gawking and less hands ready to reach out and grab him like he’s a teddy bear on a shelf. He’s happy to entertain children in hospitals or sign a few autographs, but his dancing monkey days are way, way behind him. Somewhere in the 40s - when his pull towards Bucky was in full bloom and he never got to mention it - is where his submissive attitude stayed.

 

The streets feel shorter somehow. It might be because he’s taller, his strides longer, his heart stronger. A combination of all three keeps him walking past parks, theatres, families, restaurants, and leads him into Brooklyn. Here, people try to speak to him like they know him when really all his neighbours have died long ago. He signs a couple of autographs, pulls his cap down when it gets to be too much and keeps walking. They didn’t rent out his old apartment; Fury kept it for him in case he wanted to revisit his old life. He hadn’t had time to come visit during all the rebuilding and missions the Avengers have been doing, so he goes inside now.

 

One step inside and he’s hit with the overwhelming urge to run up the stairs two at a time. He can almost smell Bucky’s lit cigarette burning a hole through their rickety couch; can hear him humming to that show-tune he always pretended was beneath him; can see the cracks on the walls from when he and Bucky got too drunk and stumbled around blindly; can feel the chips of wood on the bannister that’s still never been polished. It’s frozen in time; it’s captivating. It’s the only place Steve’s felt absolutely safe in his new life.

 

There are so many memories circulating, tugging at nerves inside Steve’s veins that he almost can’t breathe. It’s like he’s back to his small, asthmatic body just from returning to this apartment. Though, there’s one piece that won’t be in this portrait: Bucky. If he’s being honest with himself, he isn’t sure he wants him here. The Winter Soldier wouldn’t fit into this setting; he’s brutal, he’s calculated, his mind is in shambles—

 

He’s standing in the _kitchen_ , eating a _sandwich_.

 

Before any other self-preserving reaction kicks in, Steve just wants to see if his eyes are playing tricks or if Bucky has somehow remembered where they used to live. His steps are measured, obvious, because he knows his life could be in danger. He knows because he’s unwilling to fight his friend in this place filled with memories of their lives entangling. It’s not worth soiling the beauty of this apartment.

 

“Bucky?” he whispers, his arms up to show he’s unarmed. “How are you-- How’d you find this place?”

 

There’s a flash of worry that zips across his face, then fades away as he blinks a few times. Like he’s blinking away a layer of dream. To be honest, Steve feels the same way; it wouldn’t be the first time he imagined ghosts from his previous life, haunting and eerily perfect.

 

The sandwich is from Subway, Steve notices. Their fridge has been empty for decades – if there even still is one in the kitchen. Bucky munches on lettuce, watching Steve but not warily. His lips seem to twitch up in curious observation, a smile almost appearing before he goes for another bite. His hips lean against the kitchen sink, his legs crossed at the ankle. If Steve didn’t know better, it would be like the Winter Soldier never existed at all.

 

In a long stretch of silence – one Steve was using to inch closer, his hands still in view – Bucky swallows and says, “Hey, punk.” It startles Steve at first; there was nothing but the sound of his footsteps on creaky floors. Then he realizes what that tone is, those words, the warmth behind them and he nearly crumbles with the weight of it. If it weren’t for Natasha’s words warning him in his head, he would have rushed forward and crushed Bucky to him in a long, long hug. Instead, he tells himself it could just be the memories teaching him how to get Steve close; Hydra could have footage of them during the war that they’re using to coach him; it’s only two words, not an entire memory bank. It doesn’t mean anything until it does.

 

That’s what hurts Steve more – the thought that he’s being lured in, and that it’s working.

 

“Come on, Steve. Don’t look at me like I’m made of knives and explosives,” scoffs Bucky. “I’m just trying to eat a sandwich. Had no idea you were going to come here.”

 

“What else do you remember?” he asks, staying a few feet away, off to the side in case he needs to run out the back stairs. He has to be wary because he’s alone with him again, which hasn’t ended well in weeks.

 

Bucky cracks his neck, tilting it side to side. “I remember that you didn’t get cozy with any woman I set you up with. Peggy was your first kiss.” He bites into his sub, getting mayo at the corner of his mouth.

 

Steve forgets he’s not allowed to come closer, reaching to rub it off. Temptation comes in all shapes, apparently. He stops at the last second, Bucky narrowing his eyes at him. Steve crosses his arms at his chest, his brows creased. And why does he assume—

 

“I’ve had plenty of propositions!” snaps Steve, shuffling back to his original spot. “I could have a girlfriend if I wanted one.”

 

Licking the glob from his mouth, Bucky shrugs. “Then what’s stopping you?” His eyes feel sharp on Steve’s skin, like he can see through it, past the bulk and serum and into the skinny kid inside. “Unless you never wanted a girlfriend?”

 

He did. “I do!” he argues, his face heating. This isn’t exactly what he expected to happen when he climbed up the steps. Not that it isn’t preferable to being stabbed or beaten to death. “Anyway why does my love life matter? Tell me about you.” _Tell me I can trust you_.

 

Bucky crumples up his sandwich paper, placing it on the counter behind him. “I remember enough to know you don’t need my forgiveness.” He isn’t looking at Steve as he says, “I would have fallen off ten trains if it meant being able to keep fighting by your side.” At Steve’s sharp intake of breath, he looks up. “I’m the one who needs to be sorry.”

 

Steve’s body sways forward automatically, wanting to touch his friend, console him for all the years he suffered under Hydra’s thumb. “But you didn’t do any—”

 

“I could have let them kill me. I could have killed myself. It would have saved so many lives, Steve, don’t you get it?” He’s gripping the counter with his metal arm, digging his fingers into it with a crunch. “I’m guilty for letting them use me for so long.”

 

“I saw the file,” says Steve, his voice strained. No one is more of a victim than Bucky; this isn’t right. They broke open all his insecurities and made them spill out of him. He’s not wearing his charming mask, his smug one; he’s only that small voice that’s all alone. That same voice that didn’t understand why women chose _him_ over Steve when he wasn’t half as special. “Even if you wanted to kill yourself, they just erased your memory. You couldn’t be responsible for their cruel treatment.”

 

When Bucky reaches in his pocket, Steve gets a flashback of the knives waiting there. He nearly puts his fists up in case a fight is coming. Then, Bucky has a paper bag with cookies in it. Steve’s fists fall to his sides, loose and relieved. Slightly guilty, too.

 

Bucky throws the bag to him when he takes out a chocolate chip one. “I can redeem myself,” he says, and it’s kind of a ridiculous combination of actions. His voice is so low, his tone serious – while he chews on a soft cookie. His gaze is fixed on Steve’s hand, the one that caught the rest of them. “I can make you trust me again. I promise.”

 

That’s not much of an issue right now. “Bucky, I’m going to come closer,” he says softly, “if that’s not okay…”

 

“It’s fine,” he answers quickly. “I don’t want you to see me like a weapon, too. Not you, Steve. Please.” His head hangs forward, his dark hair covering his eyes. Eyes, Steve belatedly realizes, that aren’t circled in a black cloud of anger and cold judgment.

 

It’s enough for Steve to rest his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, squeezing. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know. I could have --I would have done something.” He’s surprised when dark hair tickles his nose as Bucky leans forward. They aren’t touching quite like before, but somehow it’s more intimate this way. He used to wait up for Bucky, a sketchpad in his lap, for some cough syrup or lemon tea when he was too sick to leave bed; now Bucky is leaning on him, asking for his sins to disappear. In Steve’s mind, they never were in the first place.

 

Bucky shifts closer, his arms tentative as their circle Steve’s stomach. “I can’t believe we’re here again,” he whispers, his shoulders shaking. If there are tears, he’s hiding them well; Steve doesn’t feel anything on his sleeves where Bucky’s head is resting but he hears the sniffing. And he’s still holding the bag of cookies in his hand.

 

Their life has always been this ridiculous mix of tragedy and absurdity – at least that hasn’t changed.


	9. Gone Again

It takes some convincing – on Steve’s part – to get Bucky to follow him to the Avengers tower. He doesn’t feel safe, worthy or stable, but Steve isn’t going to let him go this time. He’s going to stay with him for as long as he needs; however long it takes for his recovery.

 

They both have baseball caps as they walk slowly up to the tower. People don’t know Bucky the way they know Steve: his entire existence was meant to be a secret, and in that Hydra succeeded. If only they weren’t using another famous face. The museum has posters, statues, and videos of Bucky – always next to Steve – working in WWII. Being who they were meant to be.

 

Now it’s all confused; Steve can’t split lines down situations because the good can have bad elements, and the so-called evil can have no choice in the matter and even good intentions. Every mission, he worries he’s fighting the wrong person, group or leader. He’s told by SHIELD that it’s his duty, but he never listened to authority as much as his own intuition.

 

Justice is being able to sleep at night afterwards.

 

They’re nearly at the tower when Bucky stops walking. His gaze follows the floors all the way up to the top and the penthouse where Tony has been locked away for a suspicious amount of time now.

 

A woman smiles at them from the reception, recognizing Steve. Bucky’s whole body starts vibrating, his eyes wild with fear. Her expression turns to worry, and she glances over at a man in a dark, security suit. Bucky’s eyes get wider, his hands shaking. Steve knows the guards are only trying to help, but standing and staring at him is making it worse.

 

“They’re going to find me. I can’t be here. I can’t be here, Steve! They’ll kill everyone in the city if they have to!” he screams, drawing attention from anyone still in the lobby.

 

Steve tugs him further inside the building, huddling with him in a corner where some SHIELD agents recognize Bucky at last. One of them makes to draw her gun, but the look Steve gives her stops her in her tracks. She swallows, rushing out to stand outside the entrance doors. Bucky’s still shaking hard as Steve tries to shush him, rubbing his arms. “It’s okay, Bucky. It’s okay in here. This is the safest place.”

 

“This isn’t safe. SHIELD is here. Director Fury is SHIELD. Your boss is working for Hydra’s leader,” he croaks, wringing his hands together. His eyes are ringed dark from lack of sleep, his cheeks hollower than they should be.

 

Steve’s never seen him this frightened before. It’s breaking his heart to see this fierce man so scared that he’s falling apart. He was always Steve’s pillar, his endless courage, his fists and his bloodied lips when he couldn’t protect himself.

 

“Bucky, Bucky look at me.” His voice has to be stern no matter how much he’s aching inside. “Listen to me, okay?” Bucky nods, his eyes still unfocused and wide. “I’m only here because of you. Do you understand what that means?” he asks.

 

Bucky shakes his head, pressing his cheeks into Steve’s palms for comfort. “I’m so afraid, Stevie.” He closes his eyes and the first tears fall down in streaks. In the past, he never was this openly vulnerable. He’d never have wanted Steve to worry.

 

“I won’t let anyone lay a finger on you, Buck. I wouldn’t bring you here if I didn’t trust these people as much as you.” His eyes start to well up when Bucky finally realizes what he means. “I’ll keep you save, and I’m not going to let you go. No one is going to hurt you again. Ever.”

 

Steve holds him close, wrapping him in a cocoon with his arms. There’s a soft chuckle against his chest right where wet and warm breath hits his t-shirt. Bucky pulls out of the hug enough to say, “When did you get this sappy, punk? All this time, you’ve been acting so tough—”

 

If Steve could keep his tears back, he’d laugh. Instead he chooses the next best thing: he pulls Bucky in as best he can with both of them smiling like teenagers, holding each other tighter each moment. Bucky melts in his arms, buries his fingers underneath Steve’s shirt, sighing when Steve tangles fingers in his hair. “This is nice,” he whispers. “We should do this more often.”

 

“Yeah?” asks Steve, smiling in relief. “Whenever you want, just say the word.”

 

Natasha clears her throat, standing by the elevator, her hip pushed out and smiling fondly at them. “Whenever you guys are ready, I’ll escort you up,” she says.

 

Bucky waves an arm dismissively, not even turning around. His eyes focused solely on Steve, darting down to look at his bitten-through lips. “I might take you up on that offer sooner than you think.”

 

Steve shakes his head, chuckling. “You make it sound like I didn’t mean to offer.” He holds Bucky’s hand, walking him over to the elevator doors. “Is this all right? Me holding your hand, I mean.” He can talk as brave as he likes, but it’s still difficult sometimes to be intimate.

 

“My Stevie’s still a gentleman,” he teases, squeezing his hand. “Should I expect flowers too?” He smiles fondly, nothing but adoration in his eyes. It’s almost too much for Steve; no matter when or where they are, they always gravitate back together.

 

When they reach Natasha, she just snorts and shakes her head at them. “If Hydra could see their deadly assassin now you might give someone a heart attack.”

 

“So you’re saying I should make out with Steve in front of Alexander Pierce?” jokes Bucky, pushing his arm to lock around Steve’s elbow.

 

Steve touches his metal fingers, pressing his fingertips to the cool ridges that flow in waves. “Bucky, don’t make it worse.” He gives Natasha a glare that she ignores with a smile.

 

“You’re the one who runs around in skin-tight, patriotic outfits and I’m embarrassing you?” Bucky tilts his head questioningly, glancing back out of habit. Out of training. Necessity to make sure he’s as safe as Steve promised.

 

Steve can’t blame him for it. If he was the one who had left SHIELD, he doesn’t know if he would feel safe being anywhere afterwards. He just wishes they could skip over this part and start learning to be a duo again. Bucky knocks their shoulders together, offering a hesitant but genuine smile. ‘Sorry,’ he mouths.

 

There’s a blush high on his cheeks that he tries to hide by looking away. He forgot how observant Bucky could be – and still is, apparently.

 

Natasha barks out a laugh after glancing between the two of them, their bodies so close they might as well be one entity. Bucky needs the closeness, though. A shield – no pun intended – between him and the rest of the world.

 

“Clint is going to have a field day with you two,” she mutters as they’re going up.

*

For the most part, they’re left to their own devices. Natasha must have told the others something. Thor visits, of course; it’s only fair that he see the famous best friend who’s had Steve’s heart for most of his life. He’s nothing but polite, friendly when he meets Bucky. Loki is lurking somewhere near the doorway, his mask firmly back in place. There must be something about his way of being that makes Bucky uneasy because he starts shaking again, hand on the knife in his back pocket. Steve feels horrible for thinking it, but at least this time the attack isn’t aimed at him.

 

Luckily, Loki’s had a slew of aggressive people around him and knows the signs. He immediately raises his arms, changing the expression on his face for something more amicable. That settles the tension in the room, and Thor takes Loki with him back down the hall.

 

“You must tell him your true feelings if you have not, Captain,” says Thor as he’s leaving. Loki’s murmuring about wanting to spend more time with ‘the new soldier’ but Thor shushes him and then they’re silent, wherever they are.

 

It’s not the first time Steve and Bucky have shared a small space; their apartment wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination. They shared a bed, sometimes had to take showers together to save hot water, and even listened to the radio huddled together like pigeons. They didn’t have much time apart, not really, except the days when Bucky went out on dates. Or when Steve was left behind and he was drafted.

 

Bucky seems to be contemplating the same thing. “Just like home,” he tells Steve. He sits on the bed, patting the space next to him. “But this bed is a hell of a lot more comfortable. I wonder what we could get up to—”

 

“Bucky!” he chides gently, unable to keep his mouth from shifting into a smile. His face heats at the same time that he lets himself fall next to his friend. “You need to rest.” He slides his fingers along the dark circles of Bucky’s eyes. “When was the last time you slept properly?”

 

There’s a wall between them when he takes Steve’s hand away, but he doesn’t let go. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

 

“Hey,” mutters Steve, shuffling closer. “Hey, don’t be like that. Let’s take a nap together like we used to.” Not much has to change between them; they can kiss, maybe be more intimate, but the rest can be as it was. They can live inside each other’s skulls, step into each other’s bubbles, share space and time and everything. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that; Steve wants it to feel real again.

 

“You don’t shiver anymore, though,” says Bucky, trailing a hand down Steve’s arm. His face closes off, and he stands from the bed. “You don’t need my heat. What could I possibly do for you?”

 

It’s not about the bed or sleeping anymore; it’s about Bucky feeling inadequate. His true feelings never had time to come out when he saw post-serum Steve’s physique and strength. The war raged on, and they continued like nothing was different. Steve knew something was wrong; Bucky would never call Steve ‘invisible’ even in the indirect way he said it at that bar. He was hurting, so he wanted to hurt in return.

 

Women wanted Steve suddenly so much more than they wanted Bucky. And being Captain America took all his time away; made it impossible for them to discuss how things were shifting, how they were drifting away like tectonic plates. Steve didn’t want to let go, still doesn’t know. He just wanted to be part of the ‘normal’ crowd; he wanted to be useful for once. Bucky was always useful, strong, wanted. He finally had that himself, but it didn’t mean he didn’t need Bucky anymore. He just didn’t know how to say that without making it sound like a confession – which it may have been. Then Peggy stepped into his life, wonderful and so aware of who she was; he did love her dearly, might have even married her if it weren’t for the crash. But, deep down, he knows he might have felt incomplete. Where would bucky have fit in that equation? He would always wonder what could have been. What might have been if he wasn’t such a coward, and told him how much he meant. He loved Peggy so much, but never in the way he loved Bucky.

 

 _Loves_. He still does.

 

Second chances only happen once, Steve knows. If Bucky leaves again, he won’t let himself be found. He can’t let that be how this ends, so he stands up, holds Bucky close like he’s precious – because he is. He’s a handful of uncut sapphire; he’s galaxies undiscovered and full of light; he’s children born healthy and pure; he’s meteor showers and warm rain trickling on window panes, eclipses and moonlit skies. He’s everything that makes being alive such a miracle.

 

“I need you because you’re the biggest and best part of me, Buck. There was never anyone who took up as much of my mind as you did. I just thought you’d never want me that way.” He presses his forehead to Bucky’s, surprised even now that neither of them needs to strain their neck for it. “I need you because you saved me so many times. I love you more than anyone. Please, stay with me. Let me take care of you.”

 

Bucky’s voice shakes when he tries to choke out, “I’ll probably have to save you again. You damn punk; always getting into fights you can’t finish alone.” He squeezes Steve so tight his metal arm whirs with the strain of it. They stand there, moments and moments passing by, and Steve wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the universe. “You know I love you back, Steve. You _know_.”

 

Then Bucky surprises Steve by walking over and kissing him, his hands curled around the back of Steve’s neck. “Don’t do anything reckless unless I’m there to save you,” he says. “I mean it.”

 

“Same goes for you,” whispers Steve, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, the bed dipping under their weight.

 

When Bucky pulls away, he’s breathing hard. “That – that’s enough for now. I need a second to, you know, wrap my head around everything.”

 

“take all the time in the world, buck. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

\---

 

At one point, they move to the bed, Bucky resting atop of Steve’s chest. Their fingers tangle like vines, Steve’s palm getting sweaty. When he breaks away, he touches Bucky’s hair, pleased to find it’s softer than he imagined. He falls asleep first, embarrassingly. All he’s been doing is reading magazines, recovering and sleeping in the hospital. Apparently, it wasn’t enough.

 

In one dream, he sees Bucky smiling, drawing shapes and numbers on his chest. He whispers how glad he is to have found some pieces, but it’s not over yet.

 

_There’s more to collect; more villains to take down and disembowel._

 

Steve reaches for him, telling him to forget it all – that SHIELD can do that now. That he’ll do it himself if he has to, but Bucky doesn’t need to be involved. It doesn’t help change his mind; he moves away, further. Steve’s mind is fog-like as Bucky moves in the distance. Steve’s whole body feels numb with worry, with a marrow-deep fear of losing him to Hydra once and for all.

 

_I need to do this. I won’t feel safe until it’s over. Trust me, Steve. You said you did._

 

Steve says he does, because he does. He could never trust anyone more. However, Bucky is moving so far, he can’t feel his warmth. He feels cold. His bones ache with it. The heat leaves one side of the bed, only a dent in its place. The shape of Bucky and his smell is nearly gone, so Steve closes his eyes tight, hoping he can conjure it up somehow.

 

_Wait for me. I’ll be back. I promise. This is for both of us._

 

The air feels cold; Steve can almost touch the words, but he knows something’s wrong. Something is very wrong.

 

And when Steve wakes up, the tower silent and Bucky not asleep on his chest, he knows it wasn’t a dream after all.


	10. Come Home

Luckily, there’s never a dull moment for the Avengers. Between harebrained thieves trying to steal monuments, mutated rat-faced villains, a classified superhero team that somehow never crossed paths with them (Charles’ Men or something like that), Steve doesn’t have that much time to worry. Then there are silent days. Those moments offer him time with Thor or Natasha. Mostly Natasha because Loki is keeping Thor preoccupied with his infantile pranks, like turning everyone in the city blue.

 

Steve is patient, keeping his head up because he has no idea where Bucky would go. Well, he does, but he doesn’t want to believe he’s right. It’s while he’s picturing throats sliced and wrists bleeding like his own that Natasha comes into his room to watch movies on her laptop, telling him it’ll be all right. Never would Steve have thought she would be so good at cheering him up. Her heart’s bigger than anyone’s; he doesn’t know why she tries so hard to keep it secret.

 

Tony seldom shows his face unless it’s a threat he needs to neutralize with them. Bruce travels back and forth between the third world and any incident that requires the Hulk’s presence. He pats Steve on the back when he sees his gloomy face.

 

It looks at him every morning when he brushes his teeth, his moping, heartbroken look of unhappiness. Somehow, Natasha isn’t bothered by it. He’s tired of seeing it by day three already. Clint tries to tease one time, and says, “What happened? Your boyfriend ditch you?” and Natasha stops his blood-flow with a look of icy warning, one Steve couldn’t muster because he’s just too exhausted. He’d need to have some fight left in him to do that.

 

Days get longer; he wakes up later, eats less, stops going jogging with Sam because he’s just not up to it. It doesn’t keep Sam from coming to the tower and visiting. Their undiscussed magazine addiction continues, doing stupid Cosmo quizzes to pass the time. It helps for a while until it doesn’t; until the mirror screams at Steve to go find Bucky. He ignores it. If he wanted to be found, he wouldn’t have left in the first place. He’s on his own this time – it’s what he wants anyway.

 

Natasha convinces him it’s the right thing to do while they’re watching Fast 6, her red hair tickling his earlobes as she leans on his shoulder. It reminds him of Bucky, it’s nice. It’s just right. And when he falls asleep, she’s kind enough to stay with him, the movie paused on the last scene he watched.

 

It’s a couple more days, a couple sleepless nights, but Steve starts to feel human again. His resolve is breaking; he thinks Bucky probably isn’t coming back, and it’s okay. He’ll be fine. It might be better this way.

 

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine…

 

The mirror doesn’t scream at him this time, it whispers that he’s a coward, that he isn’t right, that nothing will ever be okay again if he doesn’t do something now. It’s crying; he’s crying, his hands sliding against the porcelain edges of the bathroom sink, squeezing so tight it starts to break.

 

“Steve?” mutters a voice from the shower. A blurry silhouette is curled into a ball, leaning against the side of the sliding door.

 

Steve slides it open, a damp tangle of dark hair plopping out. The shower is running; Steve was so lost in thought he didn’t even notice. Kohl-rimmed eyes look up at Steve, and he can’t deny he’s worried another attack is on its way, the Winter Soldier only dozing momentarily. Then Bucky reaches out his pale fingertips, ice cold against Steve’s cheek, and he murmurs, “I can’t wash the blood away.” And Steve knows it’s him.

 

It’s been two painfully long weeks, but Bucky is back in the tower. He’s _home_.

 

It’s only a second before Steve climbs in the tub with him, wrapping his arms around his chest, Bucky’s head lolling against Steve’s shoulder. The water is freezing, pink-ish every so often. There’s still blood being rinsed from Bucky’s clothes, his limbs. He starts to feel around for wounds – bullet or knife – and a metal hand squeezes him in place. At this angle, Steve can’t see his face, but he can feel him shaking.

 

Steve kicks the tap with one foot, so they can have some warm water. Bucky needs to heat up. Who knows how long he’s been shivering in here. There’s only the sound of water pouring and Steve’s brain refusing to turn off. He wants to know if he needs to protect Bucky. If the blood’s his own or if he killed someone else, part of Hydra.

 

Just as he’s set on asking, Bucky starts to laugh. He looks down at their hands where their fingers connect, metal and skin, and he keeps laughing, breathless. “I killed them,” he murmurs so soft.

 

It might not be wise to ask whom, but Steve needs to. “Who, Buck? Who did you kill?”

 

“Hydra,” he spits out like acid. “Alexander Pierce, Sitwell, Senator Stern. Anyone who hurt me, who tried to make me kill you, who made me blow up children and families, daughters and mothers -- people who didn’t need to be orphans like us.” His voice cuts off, and he stops talking. Silently dipping his hands in the water, they turn the flow pink again. “But now I can’t get it off. I’m filthy with it,” he weeps, stirring the water with his hands. “I’m just as guilty as them.”

 

A sob breaks from Steve’s throat, and he tucks Bucky closer to him. “Never, Buck, you’ll never be like them. You never wanted this. They turned you into this. They made you a weapon, what could they expect?” There’s salt on his top lip that he licks away. “I won’t let you become them. I’ll keep you safe, sane.”

 

“You shouldn’t be involved with me,” he shouts back, quick two steps and he’s out of the tub, dripping all over the tiles. Steve can tell now, from his posture, his smudged eyes, that he tried to replicate what they’d done to him so he could finish them off; so they would trust enough. And now he can’t shut it off. He’s afraid he’ll try to kill Steve again.

 

“I want to be with you, Buck. It’s all I ever needed.” Steve stands up now, the water soaking through his boxers and his undershirt. He’s freezing but he refuses to falter, show any weakness. “I will keep loving you as long as you let me.”

 

“Steve,” he whimpers, his metal shoulder sagging oddly. He holds it up, twisting until his fingers come away red. “I don’t want to be a puppet anymore.” He digs his nails in again, and Steve rushes in to stop what he knows will only make it worse. “Save me, please,” he cries.

 

“I will,” Steve tells him. “I promise I will. Just let me get you out of here. You’re soaking wet.”

 

Bucky moves as if commanded: shoulders hunching from fatigue, but each step measured as he goes to Steve’s room. Natasha watches with her lips parted, questions hovering just on the tip of her tongue. She shuffles away, dragging Clint with her when he starts to ask ‘Is he okay? I saw him on the video feed—’

 

Steve sits Bucky down on the edge of the bed and stares, dumbfounded. The damage is _overwhelming_. Each of Bucky’s fingernails are either broken or ripped clean off, he has three bullet wounds in his flesh arm, a gash in his left thigh, bruises mottled across his entire back and a shard of glass in his shoulder that he pushed further in to keep it from bleeding out. If this is how he looks, he wonders what happened to those Hydra founders, the agents, the handlers.

 

Steve’s movements are precise and delicate; he’s careful not to startle Bucky as he dabs alcohol, stitches the holes as best he can, but the arm…It’s hanging on by a thread, and somehow it doesn’t seem like something Hydra could have done. Steve needs Natasha or Tony to help with this; he can’t do anything about advanced technology, especially not a metal arm. It’s one of a kind, just like Bucky.

 

“Bucky,” he says, wiping through the bloody, matted mess at the front of his hair. “I need help to get you better. Do you still trust me?”

 

There’s a twitch in his human arm, but his eyes are averted. He blinks a few times, then shrugs. “I don’t trust myself.”

 

“I do,” whispers Steve, combing his fingers gently through dark hair. “I trust you more than anyone.” He kneels down at eye-level. “But I can’t fix you up by myself. I need to get a friend that I trust.”

 

“Just take it off,” grinds Bucky. “Get it off me! I don’t want it! I never wanted this. I didn’t choose it!” He scrapes his nails, whatever’s left of them, against the metal. Blood starts to seep through the bandages, so Steve holds them still.

 

“I know. But it’s part of you now. You need it. It’s useful,” says Steve. “You can protect me with it.”

 

At that, Bucky’s eyes light up. His gaze darts between Steve’s baby blues, his face so unreadable, so serious. He nods with a sigh, letting his head fall forward. “I’ll give you that.”

 

“Thank you.” Steve kisses Bucky’s cheek.

 

\---

 

Tony walks in and immediately walks back out. “Has he been in a warzone recently? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to dislodge an arm of that size, that is entwined with his nerve endings and muscles? I gotta say: I admire his tenacity.”

 

Steve shushes him. “He’s not deaf! Don’t be so insensitive.”

 

Tony puts his arms up. “Okay, I’m sorry. So what? You want me to reconnect his arm? Shouldn’t be too hard—”

 

“He also wants you to change the design. He’s not a soviet, not part of Hydra anymore. He wants the same colours as my shield.”

 

Scoffing, tony crosses his arms. “Why doesn’t he just get you a wedding ring already.”

 

Steve narrows his eyes.

 

Tony sighs, rolling his. “Fine, I’ll need some time though. If I go in, will he…. _you know_?”

 

“Disembowel you? Not if you don’t say ‘Hail Hydra,’” says Steve, crossing his arms. “I’ll be right next to you. Don’t worry.”

 

\---

 

It’s a bit awkward since Bucky doesn’t want to go to any of the labs. They have to fix him up right there, in the bedroom, with Steve holding his flesh hand the entire time. Eventually, he passes out, and the tension coiled in Tony’s shoulders dissipates enough for him to work faster, without fear for his life. Natasha joins them around thirty minutes in with Starbucks’ coffees as a peace offering. She knows the name of the equipment Tony keeps asking for, so Steve butts out. He occupies himself with Bucky’s flesh hand, his bruised – maybe broken – fingers and the glass that he might have missed in his palm.

 

Just as Bucky’s beginning to wake up, Tony paints the last fleck of blue on the metal arm, then flees the room. Natasha glances at Steve, nods curtly and rushes behind him. They’re careful to shut the door quietly – no need to startle a predator before he’s fully awake.

 

Bucky’s eyes are still tired, and he smiles at Steve. He says, “I kept Pierce’s heart in a Ziploc so you could give it to Director Fury.” He turns his head, groaning softly, and falls back asleep.

 

Steve has no idea what to do with that information. That combined with a sweet, almost shy smile, is jarring. But he doesn’t escape like he could, like others would, he slides in next to Bucky on the bed. Maybe he’ll make more sense in the evening. Maybe this will turn out to be a dream.


	11. Progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexytimez, in case you wanted to know. :P

An hour is how long Bucky rests - until he wails out words in Russian that Steve doesn’t know the meaning of. Whatever they are, they can’t be good because Bucky’s crying again, trying to rip off his metal arm, repeating the same thing over and over.

 

_Ikh litsa, ikh litsa…_

Eventually, Steve thinks he understands the gist of it; it hurts without needing to speak the language. He’s haunted by his crimes and the orders he was given. And they refuse to go away. Steve tries to calm him, curling around him like a big spoon, rubbing his shoulders, kissing his neck and the top of his head where he’s sweating.

 

Natasha does a good job of manning the door. No one comes in or even knocks on it with her there. Bucky hides his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, saying, “I’m going to tarnish your image. No one’s going to want to be saved by you. Steve, you should run before they link us.” But his voice is steady, and though his eyes are red, it’s the calmest thing he’s said all day. He even offers a small, helpless smile that Steve tucks away for one of his rare drawing moods.

 

There’s a process going through Bucky’s head: memories jumble up with what he was taught and who he was told he was. Sometimes he looks up at Steve and his eyes narrow, his shoulders tense and his back hunches. Other times, his lashes get damp from the wave of relief, and he holds on as if he’s treading water. Mostly, he just wants to sleep, so Steve lets him.

 

Later, when Bucky is a lot closer to his emotionally-constipated self – who also happens to be the best at charming women – he decides to get up from bed and drag Steve with him. He tells him, not unkindly or without option, that they need to have some supper. Even now, with his mind scrambled and treacherous, he’s still worrying about Steve’s health. It would be a travesty if it wasn’t so damn thoughtful.

 

This is why he’s the man Steve loves.

 

(They don’t leave Steve’s bedroom; they order food in and Natasha brings it to them with a scrutinizing glance. Her gaze lingers a moment in Bucky’s direction, but Steve can’t blame her for it.)

 

\---

 

A couple days pass with Bucky screaming out in Russian, ripping through blankets and trying to smother a face only he sees. When it isn’t that, and it seems calmer, there’s one instance that he punches clean through the wall. Clint blinks at the sizeable hole and keeps chewing on his pepperoni pizza. Natasha is next to him, reading a newspaper with a crumbling building on the cover. Somehow, Steve knows not to ask who did it – that the glassy-eyed man next to him is the villain from that article’s perspective. But not to him, never to him.

 

Bucky could destroy the entire Milky Way and Steve would get it. He didn’t deserve a single second of what happened to him. Steve just pulls him in close, tucking his body around his like a blanket of warmth, Bucky’s very own retreat from everything. They often end up making out after Bucky’s heart calms enough, stopping just as both of them consider taking their clothing off. To be on the safe side.

 

There’s a day here and there that Bucky wants to socialize, which worries Steve a bit because his triggers are random and there are several more than when the nightmares started. He could be talking softly to Bruce, his hip out in that flirty way he does sometimes, and Bruce could sweep a knife off the counter by accident and it lets loose the floodgates of rage. Clint’s laugh does it – when his voice gets deep and ominous – because it reminds him of handlers or Pierce. Strawberry jam on Natasha’s toast will set him off with a series of twitches that devolve into whimpers that only get louder until Steve hides him away; and they kiss slowly and as long as Bucky needs, their mouths tingling.

 

Tony doesn’t leave his penthouse anymore so he doesn’t see any of this; he only makes sure to pay the bill for damaged walls, ceiling, floors, mirrors… For all they know, his secretive behaviour could be the biggest trigger of all.

 

Thor is the only one who doesn’t trigger Bucky for some reason. Perhaps because he was one of the first to meet him. Maybe because everything about Thor is straightforward, including his gestures and his boisterous laugh. On the other hand, just the smell of Loki and his expensive taste brings back a rush of bloody scenes to Bucky’s mind – something to do with a wealthy family that he had to kill one at a time, each of their throats cut. They had three children, all under the age of twelve, and a beagle named Ralph.

 

The problem, Steve realizes, is he remembers it _all_ now. The good and the bad. Years and years of damage that was piling up, being overwritten, erased, reprogrammed, it’s all flooding his senses, and he can’t get out because it’s inside of him. There’s no escape from what’s inside your mind. Steve offers the only solution he can think of.

 

“I want you to live here,” he says while Bucky’s head is on his lap, both of them eating popcorn on the couch in the living room. Thor passes by occasionally to steal a handful, and then sneaks off down the hall.

 

Bucky bites his lip in surprise, hissing. “I thought I was?”

 

“I mean _really_ live here. We can go buy you stuff to hang around, get you new clothes. Whatever soaps and foods make you happy. Whatever you need.” He touches Bucky’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I want you to be with me.”

 

The popcorn nearly falls over when Bucky sits up on the couch to face Steve. “You’re serious? You mean permanently?” He touches Steve’s shoulder. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t expect you to want me like…like _this_.” He gestures to encompass all of his body. “I’m a wreck even when I’m not.”

 

Steve nods, can’t deny it. “Yeah, but I think I can help.” He pulls Bucky closer, holding him by the nape. “Maybe with me you can be better in a shorter while. Don’t you think?”

 

“ _How_?” he asks, his voice so full of disbelief it’s almost insulting.

 

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” he teases. “I can help you remember things. Good things. Things that used to make you who you were before the war and everything else.”

 

“Yeah?” Bucky whispers, closing his eyes. He leans his forehead against Steve’s. His lips curl in a charming grin, the kind he used on women when he asked them to dance. “Tell me something now. I need some convincing.”

 

Steve ruffles his hair, then whispers in his ear, “There was that one winter, the one when we had a record amount of snow. The streets were all white, kids were sliding down their stairs in toboggans. You remember?”

 

Bucky nods, tilting his head to hear better. He licks his lips. “Yeah, then what else?”

 

“You couldn’t go to work that day. And I was sick anyway. So you stayed home with me the whole time, made me soup when I started coughing.” Steve closes his eyes too. Bucky hadn’t eaten any, but that part can be left out. “It tasted so nice. I remember it being a bit on the spicy side but just warm enough, and you even got some crackers from Mrs. Trent down the hall.”

 

“I thought it was what soups usually came with, no big deal.” Bucky nuzzles Steve’s cheek, his arms going around his torso, fingers playing underneath his shirt.

 

“It was a big deal, Bucky. Just like this is a big deal to me. But you know what the best part was?” He presses in closer, enjoying the soft caresses.

 

“What?” Bucky shifts back so they’re looking at each other, a scant inch apart.

 

Steve opens his eyes, touching the stubble that’s starting to grow over bruises and scars on Bucky’s face. “You were saving money to get that woman with the black hair a scarf, but you got me a chocolate bar instead. Just to melt it and make me homemade cocoa.”

 

“God, Steve,” breathes Bucky. “You really remember it all.”

 

He can’t help the shrug. It’s not about his memory. Bucky needs to see how kind he was, how he still can be. That period didn’t change the man he is. He’s still right here and he’s all Steve cares to see. “Just say you’ll stay. We can go out tomorrow evening when there aren’t too many people around.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, his lashes fluttering. “But you need to do me one favour first.”

 

Steve’s nodding before he’s even said it because he knows; he knows and he’s wanted this for so long he can feel it in the air between them. “Yeah, anything.”

 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Bucky pleas breathlessly, pushing forward and kissing Steve before he’s even finished the word.

 

They end up rolling off the couch, tumbling to the ground with Bucky sitting on Steve’s hips. Although they should worry about being caught or at the least interrupted, Bucky refuses to disconnect from any part of Steve’s body. His hands move smooth in between layers, tugging off t-shirt and undershirt. Steve is obsessed with the taste of Bucky’s mouth and the way he pants even though he’s the most in shape of anyone in the tower. His brow creases when Steve bites his bottom lip, so he does it again, licking salt from sweat dripping down his temple.

He lets Steve switch their places, his elbows banging into the coffee table. Bucky says _ow_ for him, laughing as Steve keeps trying to kiss him senseless. He nearly tears down the middle of Bucky’s t-shirt, except it’s the only one he owns right now. He throws it aside and pushes his hips down, a slow dirty grind to match the flick of his tongue sliding across teeth and taste buds. Bucky’s chest heaves, a giddy high pitched sound slipping out when Steve cups the shape of him through his jogging pants. Those are Steve’s.

 

“If I had known--” He moans. “--you were so into me--” He whimpers as Steve presses his own bulge against his. “I would have let you do this years ago.”

 

It might be a joke, but Steve doesn’t care because it makes his cock twitch and he shoves his hips in closer, tight little circles as he grinds and rolls his hips. He’s never wanted anyone to see him at this point, wanton and nearly drooling with each kiss. Their lips smack and Bucky moans out a string of swear words filthy enough to get God’s ears ringing. Steve likes the sound so much he bites down on his neck, right above his collarbone, and slides both their pants down.

 

After that, it’s just boxers left and Bucky takes care of them, shoving them away and not caring where they fly to when he throws them. It’s skin on skin, slick from sweat and pre-come, the carpet below Bucky probably burning his thighs, but he doesn’t give any sign of discomfort. He’s too busy moaning _please, please, god, I love you so much_ and Steve’s only concern is getting them both release. About eight decades’ worth.

 

Their fingertips brush in a gentle touch, surprising since their bodies are practically thrashing together, hips pumping erratically. Steve knows he’s seconds from going off – not enough practice, and too much longing involved to last – but Bucky is the one sobbing that he’s _close, so close I feel like he might die if I don’t come soon._ He’s kissing Steve’s jaw, biting down on his chin hard, hips pushing up in frantic, stuttering movements. He whines out, “Hurry up, punk!” and that does it for Steve—

 

A reminder of the times that came before serums and Hydra’s reign. A moment where it was just two orphans, working together to stay alive and make it through one more winter. And Steve nearly cries when he wraps his hand around both their erections, jerking fast a couple times, because it feels too good to be real. Bucky with his eyes screwed shut, his lips red and swollen, his hair sweating but perfect. So perfect in the end. So Steve lets go, and his body aches with his orgasm, every bone in his body feeling it as he releases across Bucky’s chest and abdomen.

 

Bucky drags Steve in for a rough kiss, praise after praise pressed against his lips and his thighs wrapping around him. he wrenches out the last of the high, his own almost a whisper in comparison – just a soft sigh and the beautiful arch of his back as he digs nails and metal into Steve’s biceps.

 

There isn’t anything better than this, being in this moment with him. They kiss for a while, breathless. And of course Bucky has to ruin the intimate, peaceful moment by smacking Steve’s ass and saying, “Can you get it up again, Captain America?”

 

“No,” begs Clint, having picked up their bowl of popcorn. “I don’t want to be subjected to old man porn. Please go somewhere else. I’m sure Thor would rather see this.”

 

Natasha says from the kitchen, “Are they done yet? I want to watch Project Runway.”

 

And it’s official: the moment has collapsed on itself, dug a hole and died in it. Steve thumps his head against Bucky’s chest, groaning. Hands curl into his hair, tugging softly. He can feel his heart slowing down. Steve looks up at his flushed face, a bright red that somehow fits with the dark strands sticking to sweat on his cheeks. He’s grinning, a twinkle in his eye that says he might want to go again in the living room – just to spite them. Steve isn’t sure he could say no if he asked.

**Author's Note:**

> comments appreciated if you have the time. :)


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